


Of Roses and Dragonfire

by xErised



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: 69 (Sex Position), Bets & Wagers, Community: hd_erised, Dragons, Drunkenness, Getting Together, H/D Erised 2018, Inappropriate Erections, M/M, Meddling Hogwarts, Mutual Pining, Parseltongue Kink, Post-Hogwarts, Professor Draco Malfoy, Professor Harry Potter, Professors, Resolved Sexual Tension, Semi-Public Sex, Sex in the Great Hall, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn, Tattooed Harry Potter, Wooing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-04
Updated: 2018-12-04
Packaged: 2019-08-10 22:18:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 53,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16463420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xErised/pseuds/xErised
Summary: Years after That Kiss, Potter (and his new pet snake) appears again, this time as Hogwarts's Quidditch and Muggle Games instructor (what are Muggle Games anyway? Is this why Potter is swimming in the Great Lake wearing such a tiny pair of pants?), disrupting Draco's peaceful life as Defence Against the Dark Arts professor. It's bad enough dealing with one exuberant Gryffindor (Charlie Weasley as Care of Magical Creatures professor) on the faculty, and what's all the gossip about Potter courting Draco?





	1. TERM ONE

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Elle Gray (LGray)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LGray/gifts).



> Dear ElleGray, welcome to the fest! It was an absolute joyride creating this - I had so much fun envisioning them as teachers, and writing about Hogwarts was so nostalgic. I hope you will adore your gift as much as I enjoyed writing it! My thanks to Mollie, for her wonderful and detailed beta, and also to the mods for their support.

Gawain Robards pushes a sheet of parchment across the table. He takes a sip of tea and watches Draco as grey eyes scan the list of names of new Auror recruits that have just started their training. The Head Auror waits for him to look up before putting his cup down and speaking.

"Jonathan McAllister. Very... feisty, like what you said."

Which Draco translates to _hot-tempered, with a blatant disregard for discipline_.

The name conjures a memory of a tall redhead in Gryffindor robes, scowling in concentration as he advances towards Draco, his wand snapping in the air and incantations rolling off his tongue as he deflects a volley of N.E.W.T-level curses during Draco’s Duelling Club session.

Draco puts down the parchment. "I stand by my recommendations. He will need a firm hand to guide him, but he was one of my top students last year, excelling in both theory and practical. The Auror Corps would benefit greatly from his talents and instinct." He glances at the names again. Roughly two-thirds of them are his former students. "I trust the others have not given you as much trouble?" 

"Still too early to say yet, they're barely one month into the Academy." Robards cracks a rare smile. "No need to sound so defensive over McAllister. I have learnt to trust your recommendations.” 

Draco looks at a name on the parchment — Ellie Barker. He can't help the small beam of pride tugging on his lips as he remembers Ellie, a shy, petite Slytherin (one of his own!) — _"I... I'd really like to be an Auror, Professor Malfoy, but I don't think I can do it..."_ — blooming into a confident dueller. He received an owl from her days ago, and her excitement about her admission and gratitude for his tutelage lifted his spirits for the entire day. 

"More tea?" he offers. At Robards's nod, he flicks his wand to refresh his cup. They spend some time in Draco’s office discussing the recruits, along with fine-tuning some aspects of this partnership with Robards and the DMLE.

The collaboration is Draco's brainchild, implemented at the start of his second year teaching Defence Against the Dark Arts in Hogwarts. There are two objectives: to reduce the dropout rate of new Aurors in the Academy, and to decrease the amount of training time needed for fresh recruits. To accomplish this, Draco tailors the contents of the sixth- and seventh-year syllabus to reflect some of the topics covered in the Academy, but he has to strike a balance not to exclude those students with no interest in being Aurors. Also, as Head of Slytherin House, he dispenses career advice for the fifth years, so this helps him to take note of students keen on a job in the DMLE. 

When he first broached this idea to the rest of the teachers, Charlie Weasley (Professor of Care of Magical Creatures, Head of Gryffindor), who was a new addition to the faculty, frowned and said, "That won't be fair to the other Houses."

Draco was prepared for that. "I am aware of this, so if this project is to take flight, I would welcome suggestions regarding promising Auror recruits from the Heads of the other Houses. Such students would naturally be in my N.E.W.T. classes, and I will gauge their potential and capabilities with equal favour." 

For the next two years, Draco would appraise the students, noticing their technique, leadership skills and character, along with their ability to handle pressure and conflict. After their final exams, he would send Robards a list of names that he recommends, along with reference letters for students that requested it from him.

The partnership is a win for all parties involved: the DMLE clearly benefits, Hogwarts enjoys a raise in her profile, and as for Draco...

It’s nine years after the War, but he knows that no matter how many glowing reviews he receives, there will still be parents displeased with having a Death Eater as a teacher. This collaboration would present him in a better light, increasing his job security. Also, it’s always useful having connections to the DMLE, and by extension, the Ministry. 

After all, Draco would never invest so much time and energy into something that wouldn't directly benefit him.

"I think we're finished here." Robards packs up his notes. He drains his tea, stands up, and both men shake hands. 

"I shall see you this time next year, then," Draco says. This is their first meeting at Draco's office in Hogwarts, just before the start-of-term feast. 

"Have a good year ahead. What is it, your fourth year here?" Robards says, shaking his head as he runs his fingers through his salt-and-pepper hair. "Time sure passes fast." He puts on his coat, and then looks at Draco. "Seems like yesterday that you were in the Academy yourself. Shame about your hasty departure, but your reasons were sound." 

Draco stiffens. "Thank you for keeping my reasons secret." 

He follows Robards to the door, and at the threshold, Robards turns back. "I'm sure you know this, but Potter's now teaching at Hogwarts. Strange how he switched from professional Quidditch to teaching." His gaze sharpens. "And what's even stranger is how he quit the Academy after you left." 

Draco's smile feels plastered on, and he's saved from answering when Charlie Weasley barrels into the room, narrowly missing Robards. 

"Whoa, sorry!" Charlie exclaims, stepping back at once. 

"No harm done," Robards says. He asks after the Weasleys, especially Arthur Weasley, who is retired. 

“Oh, Dad's doing great! He helps George out with the shop sometimes, and he spends way too much time tinkering with his Muggle things, driving Mum absolutely spare,” Charlie says.

Eventually, Robards nods at them and bids goodbye. Charlie closes the door after Robards leaves. He follows Draco to his table, plopping down on the chair that Robards vacated minutes ago. "So how many of mine made it into the Academy this year?" 

Draco tells him, and he whoops. "All right! That's... six more than yours!" 

Draco sniffs. "I'm sure mine count for more since being an Auror is such a Gryffindor profession."

"Nope, that's not how it works." Charlie grins. "And you should talk, being one yourself, years ago. Does it actually count if you didn’t finish the Academy proper?" He pauses, then dismisses the question. "Well, you're here now, and you're gonna do your usual terrorising of the first-years." 

"I won't be terrorising anyone if this new cohort isn't the usual pack of dunderheads I have to teach," Draco replies, his voice muffled as he pokes his head into the cupboard to unpack his things. 

"Usual dunderheads," Charlie echoes, laughing. "Channelling your inner Snape now, are we? Isn't it enough that you swirl your robes around like a giant bat like him? At least you wash your hair more often." 

Draco takes out his textbooks and places them on the table. "I won't have you talking about my late mentor like that." 

"C'mon, you know it's all in good fun. I'm fun, unlike you," Charlie says, grinning. He stands up, draws himself up to his full height (which is still a head shorter than Draco), fixes him with a haughty, formal expression that Draco supposes is an imitation of himself, and sticks his hand out towards Draco. He intones in a flat voice, "Good morning, Mr Charles Weasley, my name is Draco Malfoy. It is a pleasure to meet you, and I wish that we will have a pleasant working relationship." 

Charlie drops his facade. "No one, not even my parents, calls me Charles." He sits down. "Took you months to finally start calling me Charlie." 

"Charles is your given name, isn't it? Why would your parents name you that if they aren't going to call you that?" 

"It's a nickname! If I called you Drake—" 

"Call me that, and I will hex you all the way back to Romania," Draco warns. He drops his gaze down Charlie's body — he might be in robes, but Draco knows how defined his muscles are, thanks to his work at the dragon sanctuary over summer hols. He’s fit (even with all the freckles), there's no doubt about it, but Draco will never see him in that way. 

"What happened?" He gestures to a healing burn visible on Charlie's forearm when Charlie pushes up a sleeve. "One of the dragons get you?" 

Charlie looks at the injury and winces at the memory. "Yeah. She's a right fighter, that one. She and I go a long way back, and... " He sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. "She's not doing too well at the moment." His expression of concern morphs into irritation when his fingers catch on air instead of his usual ponytail. 

"Your mother chopped it off again?" Draco asks, raising an eyebrow at the uneven cut of Charlie's hair. 

"Oh, you know how it is. I go home for summer, she cuts it, I go to Romania and then back home, she cuts it again, I grow it out during school term, and there it goes again." He huffs in exasperation. "You'd think she'd lay off, seeing that I'm already thirty-five." He looks at Draco. "Speaking of mothers, how's yours?" 

"She's doing very well, thank you for asking." Draco rummages in his knapsack, pulling out two tins of biscuits. "Here you go." 

Charlie brightens at once. He pries open a tin and pours out a handful of butter biscuits on the table (Draco wrinkles his nose at the crumbs). "Oh, brilliant," he says, gazing starry-eyed at the dragon-shaped biscuits before popping two into his mouth. "So good!" he declares in delight. 

Draco smiles at his friend's blissful expression. These dragon biscuits are sold only in France, and he always buys some back for Charlie when he returns home every year. He knew right from the start that Charlie loves dragons, but when they first met, he just didn't know how much. 

_"Are you seeing anyone, Charles? Or is this too inappropriate a question to ask this early into our friendship?"_

_"Merlin, Draco, no need to be so formal all the time. No, it's alright. I'm not seeing anyone. I'm just more comfortable around animals, especially dragons. I really love dragons."_

_"My apologies, but I think I would have to clarify. Love as in... love dragons or love_ love _dragons?"_

 _"What?! No, not in that way, bloody hell, Draco! I just haven't found anyone, bird or bloke, who loves dragons as much as I do, and who would be suitable for me as a partner."_

During the past two years (Charlie joined the faculty a year after Draco), Draco has grown to be rather fond of him. Things started out awkward and stiff between them, but it gradually developed into acquaintanceship, and finally, friendship. Also, as far as Weasleys went, Charlie is probably the best one out of the lot — Draco had the least contact with him. 

The minute Charlie got wind of the Care of Magical Creatures vacancy, he took the first Portkey out of Romania into London, Flooed to Hogsmeade and flew to Hogwarts, before charging wildly into one of Minerva's Transfiguration lessons and waving his resume like a madman. 

Draco was surprised he didn't come roaring in on a bloody dragon. 

It was a refreshing change having Charlie around. Sure, Draco got on well enough with the other teachers, but they were so much older. Although, it appears that the average age of the faculty would be dropping again, with the addition of— 

"Harry's here already, I ran into Horace on the way here and he told me." Charlie looks at him, his words hesitant when Draco’s lips thin at the mention of Potter. "You'll be alright, yeah? You've always had a... history with him, and more recently, with the whole... Auror thing..." he trails off uncertainly. 

Draco hasn't even seen the man himself in seven years, yet he has sat through three separate conversations about him; two from Robards and Charlie, and one from Minerva. The Headmistress sought him out soon after he returned, breaking the news that Harry Potter is replacing Madam Hooch as Flying Instructor, although he requested for the name of his classes to be changed to "Quidditch and Muggle Games" to "better reflect the scope" of his lessons.

What does _Muggle Games_ mean, anyway? 

Minerva used sentences like "colourful, turbulent history, as I should know, having seen your fighting when you attended Hogwarts yourself, Professor Malfoy," and "grown out of such things," and "no longer a student now, but a very distinguished and competent member of our faculty," all the while peering at him over her spectacles, making him feel very much like a student. 

After Draco recovered from the sheer shock of it all, he said to her, in a calm that he most definitely did not feel, "I'm certain that I will not let our history hamper my professionalism in any way." 

And then he returned to his chambers and promptly drowned himself in copious amounts of tea. 

When Charlie mutters his name, Draco pulls himself back to the present. He's not sure what the other man means by _the whole Auror thing_ , because he most certainly did not tell Charlie what happened between them during their time in the Academy. Besides, who knows what Potter told Charlie... after that... _that_ —

Draco tells Charlie what he told Minerva. Intent on avoiding the subject, he glances at his watch and pulls on his robes. "The students would be arriving soon. We should be going.”

They head to the Great Hall, with Charlie prattling on about the Weasleys' recent family holiday to Spain. As they walk, Draco basks in the peace of these hallowed halls minutes before the hordes of students, both old and new, descend into Hogwarts for yet another school year. 

When they're steps away from the Hall, a bright shot of laughter rings out in the air. 

Draco freezes. 

He'd know that laugh anywhere. 

Charlie stops beside him, shooting him a look of concern. 

Draco schools his features into an expression of aloof detachment and enters the Hall. He's going to play it cool, show that he's not as affected as everyone thinks he is— 

"Harry, mate!" Charlie yells, waving madly. "Good to see you!" 

Draco makes a note never to bring along over-exuberant Gryffindors when planning a quiet entrance. 

Potter shouts back a greeting, and Draco's heart thuds — out of tension or desire, he doesn't know and doesn't want to know. Nevertheless, Draco resolutely doesn't look at the staff table as he makes his way there, instead letting his gaze flicker everywhere else, from the decorations of the Hall to the long tables. 

Despite that, he knows Potter is looking at him. 

He always knows when Potter's eyes are on him. 

He takes his usual seat between Filius Flitwick and Aurora Sinistra — they’re not here yet — busying himself with smoothing out his napkin and shifting his cutlery and goblet to his preferred positions. He looks up only when Charlie has engaged Potter in conversation. 

He is not prepared for this onslaught of Potter-related emotions. 

He thought he'd left it all behind him, yet he drinks in Potter's appearance like a castaway in the desert devouring a goblet of water: dark hair — still messy but much shorter, like their fifth year in Hogwarts, highlighting the strong line of his jaw. He's clean-shaven now, which is a change from the perpetual stubble that he used to sport in the Academy. Same heavyset brows and round glasses (Draco used to tease him about the style being so last century) framing vibrant green eyes that crinkle at the corners whenever Potter smiles. 

Potter is wearing robes, which hide his frame, but Draco would bet every last Galleon to his name that under those robes, his physique is still as fit as he remembers. 

Draco's breath hitches when he spots the twin black stud earrings on Potter's left earlobe. 

Those piercings are completely new, and it's fucking sexy. 

Potter laughs, and Draco is instantly transported to that pub night with their fellow Auror trainees in the Leaky — Potter pushing him up against the wall of the loo, arms snaking their way around Draco's waist, hands going down to squeeze his arse as he swept him into a kiss so intense that Draco's toes curled in his boots. Shock and disbelief pounding through him that it was Potter kissing him like this, holding him like this, Draco's hands trailing up Potter's abdomen, gasping at his taut stomach and warm skin. The taste of alcohol on Potter’s breath, but the lucidity in green eyes told Draco that they were both sober enough, what this meant— 

— _what they could have been._

Draco wanked himself raw for days after that kiss. 

He was twenty years old, hormonal and lust-filled. Seven years have passed, and he would like to think he's above that now. 

Filius and Aurora reach the table, and Draco hurriedly looks away from Potter to engage the Charms and Astronomy professors in polite conversation about their hols. When there's a lull in the conversation, Draco casually glances back at Potter, only to see the other man frowning at him. 

It's a force of habit when Draco matches Potter's scowl with equal intensity, easing only when Potter's frown morphs into a puzzled expression, before he looks away. 

Draco's hands curl in his lap. 

_Well, if you want to play it that way, bring it on._

There's a familiar rumble of footsteps and the low, muffled hum of excited chatter, and the majestic doors of the Hall swing open. 

The students have arrived.

* * *

Harry adds his cheers to the mix when the Sorting concludes, with Charlie's whoops being the loudest when Anthony Zabelle is sorted into Gryffindor. A surge of nostalgia overwhelms Harry when Anthony goes to an empty seat at the Gryffindor table — that was Harry, Hermione and Ron's usual spot. He misses his two best friends back in London so much; Ron is working with George at Wheezes, while Hermione is a Healer at Mungo's. 

When McGonagall (he'll need some time getting used to calling her by her given name) takes the owl lectern for the usual start-of-term speech, Harry grins as he scans the bright, eager faces turned towards her. This is so different from his last memory of the Great Hall; he can still remember the fresh blood glistening on the stone floor, cries of grief piercing the air as survivors of the war cradled the lifeless bodies of their loved ones. 

Harry's smile fades. 

After his victory over Voldemort, he remembers the great chunks torn from the marble staircases of the castle, the gaping holes in the ruined walls, the rubble and bodies scattered on the floor. The Quidditch pitch was on fire, and through his screams and sobs, he tried to put it out, even though he knew it was no use — the fire was too big, and as it ripped through the pitch, it felt like his happiest memories of flying were burnt into cinders.

That's all in the past now. 

Ron and he skipped eighth year, with only Hermione returning to obtain her necessary qualifications for Healing. When Harry reached Hogwarts that afternoon, he spent some time getting re-acquainted with the castle. Equipped with the Marauders' Map, he wandered around the castle, which is now restored to its former glory. He let himself fall into the bittersweet fog of nostalgia, lingering at places he used to frequent as a student. You wouldn't even know a battle had occurred here, except for the war memorial on the seventh floor. His last stop was the White Tomb, Dumbledore's grave on the shores of the Great Lake. He spent a peaceful time there, simply sitting and watching the rippling water. He even laughed when the Giant Squid popped out a tentacle and waved it in his direction, as if welcoming him back. 

This is how he wants to remember Hogwarts: of magic and wonder, of rebirth and renewal... 

...of _home._

Even though little appears to have changed, Harry is thankful for the Map, for half of the bloody staircases have changed their destinations, some doors that he was familiar with are locked now, and the locations of some portraits (along with their corresponding hidden passages) have been moved. 

The faculty has mostly remained the same, except for one marked difference.

Harry slants his head to the left, edging a glance at Draco Malfoy, who is looking straight at him. It's been years, and he's even more gorgeous now— 

 

Already flustered, Harry yelps particularly loudly when Charlie elbows him hard in the ribs. 

"Get up, Minerva's talking about you," he hisses.

Harry looks at McGonagall, who does not appear to be amused. His face heating at the expectant faces turned towards him, he stands, waving when McGonagall introduces him as "Mr Harry Potter, Instructor of Quidditch and Muggle Games". Whispers break out like wildfire among the students, and he catches phrases like, "the Harry Potter", "our Saviour and Seeker for the Magpies", "won the Quidditch World Cup", and "what are Muggle games, anyway". 

Silence falls when McGonagall clears her throat. She ends her speech by wishing the students a fruitful term ahead, and when she claps her hands, food appears on their plates. She steps down from the lectern and returns to her seat at the middle of the table, raising her eyebrows at Harry on the way there.

Dinner passes uneventfully, with Harry talking mostly to Charlie and Pomona Sprout, although he does find his gaze wandering to Malfoy often. His mannerisms are still familiar — cutting his food with precise strokes, his goblet always on his right side, and when he talks to Sinistra and Flitwick, there's a slight pause before he speaks, as if he's considering an issue from all angles.

When he locked eyes with Malfoy earlier, he probably shouldn't have glared at him like that, but it's hard to suppress his frustration at their... _unfinished business_ years ago. 

Damn, it sounds so bloody sordid when he puts it like that. 

And what the hell, why is Malfoy ignoring him? Not even a glance, as if they're complete strangers! 

Harry munches grumpily on his bread and butter pudding. 

Soon, Malfoy makes his excuses, stands up, nods — his eyes lingering on Harry — and leaves. Harry watches as he walks away, controlling the urge to chase him and shake some answers out of him. Vexed, he sighs and tears his attention away from Malfoy, only to see the rest of the faculty staring at him. 

"What?" he squawks. 

His new colleagues dissolve into a chorus of "Nothing, Harry!", clearing of throats and polite laughter. He casts a suspicious look at them, especially at a grinning Charlie, but returns to his pudding.

He spends some time catching up with McGonagall and the other professors, and when he's ready to retire for the night, most of the school population — both students and teachers — have left. Upon spotting the leftover pork chops at the table, Harry perks up. He transfigures a napkin into a bag, and stuffs a few chops into it — Pork Chop hasn't tasted pork chops cooked the Hogwarts way, and he's sure she'll love it. 

Harry wishes everyone a good night, and leaves the Hall, heading towards the direction of his room. 

Or so he would've, but at every turn of the corner and descent of each staircase, Harry gets the feeling that he's going in circles. It doesn't help that he isn’t very familiar with his destination — Madam Hooch's old room. Some students are still milling about the halls, but Harry's pride and embarrassment stops him from asking for directions. And he left his Map in the room, having falsely thought that he was going to be late for the Sorting. Harry sighs, looking at the grease of the pork chops seeping through the bag. He wanders down another corridor, and when he sees a shadow around the corner, he makes up his mind to ask this person for help. 

Of course, it has to be Draco sodding Malfoy. 

Malfoy's walk is purposeful and sure, but he slows down when he approaches Harry. His brows pull together in a slight frown. "Are you alright, Potter? You look particularly..." he gestures to Harry's face. "Confused." 

"Er." Harry peers at both ends of the corridor. "I think I'm lost," he says, feeling very much like a first-year. 

This is hardly the suave and sophisticated greeting that he is hoping for after seven years. 

To Harry's surprise, Malfoy doesn't laugh right in his face.

"Are you staying at Rolanda Hooch's old quarters?" he asks. At Harry's nod, Malfoy leads him back the way he came. Harry follows him, passing through corridors and climbing a staircase. Malfoy sniffs the air, and then looks at Harry's bag. "You know the elves can make you something if you get hungry later at night." 

"No, it's not for me. It's pork chops, for my pet," Harry explains, holding up the bag.

"You brought a pet to Hogwarts?" 

"Yep, an Ashwinder." Harry smiles at the thought of Pork Chop. 

"An Ashwinder?" Malfoy yelps, stopping in his tracks. "Have you gone completely mad? The eggs of those snakes can burn down the school! There are students here, Potter, if you haven't noticed—" 

"Hey, hey," Harry cuts him off; he knows how hard it is to stop Malfoy when he's in full ranting mode. "She might be an Ashwinder, but she can't lay any more eggs. Plus, McGonagall says it's okay." A hot spike of irritation surges in him, and he treads alongside Malfoy when Malfoy resumes walking. "Give me some damn credit. You wouldn't really think I'd bring a dangerous creature to school without thinking it through." 

"I wouldn't know. You don't really have a reputation for thinking things through." 

Harry would take offence at that, except for Malfoy's tone — not combative like the words themselves, but rather… wistful, as if he's lost in some memory. 

They walk in strained silence, and when they turn down another corridor, Harry recognises the furnishings of the area. He knows his way back, but he keeps quiet, wanting this private moment with Malfoy. The question, bubbling and simmering inside him for years, is poised at the tip of his tongue. He knows it's way too early for this landmine of a conversation, but he can't bear it anymore. 

"Why did you leave Auror training?" he blurts out. 

Malfoy freezes, and then hurries ahead. 

Harry blinks at his rapidly retreating figure. "Damn it, Malfoy. Stop running!" He catches up to the other man and whirls him around by the arm. "We were one week away from finishing, and everything was alright, but you just upped and left without any warning! One day you were there, and the next, you weren't. Robards said you left, and... and my owls to you kept returning unread. Where did you go, and why? Why couldn't you tell me?" 

Grey eyes flash as Malfoy shakes his arm free. A coil of heat flares deep in the pit of Harry's belly. It's been years, and it's amazing how Malfoy can still trigger this visceral passion in him. 

"It's in the past, Potter—" 

But Harry's mind is buzzing with the possible reasons for Malfoy's sudden departure, reasons that he turned over repeatedly throughout the years. He wants answers, and he wants them now. "Was it because you were scared of being an Auror? Or did you finally have enough of the gossip and dirty looks that some of the trainees gave you?" His voice drops, and he remembers how foolish he felt, so damn embarrassed and rejected when Malfoy ran off four days after that night at the pub. "Was it me? Was it because... because I kissed you? Was it that bad that you had to flee the damn country?"

Malfoy stares at him for a long moment, his head shaking in disbelief and his mouth opening and closing, at an utter loss of what to say. He eventually lets out a cold, hard laugh that curls viciously at the corners, and Harry glares at him. It’s clear that Malfoy is controlling his temper — the ramrod tightness of his body, paired with his flinty stare. "Not everything revolves around you, Potter. I shall escort you to your quarters and we will never speak of this again." 

"You know what?" Harry says, his anger quickly matching Malfoy's. "I think I can find my way back from here, thanks." 

"Good," Malfoy bites out, his tone indicating anything but that. He narrows his eyes at Harry, and a sudden pang of sadness hits Harry — it seems like they're back to square one, that their growing friendship (or maybe even something more, but he doesn't dare think about that) during their time at the Academy is well and truly destroyed. 

"Stay out of my way, and I'll stay out of yours." Malfoy growls, and in a dramatic swish of his robes, he stalks away, leaving Harry staring after him. 

"Wanker," Harry mutters and stomps to his room. He slams the door shut behind him and aims a hard kick at it. 

"My, someone's in a right snit tonight." 

He spins around, his mood lifting at the sight of Pork Chop, her long, pale-grey body uncoiling as she slithers out of her basket to greet him. Her body is as thick as Harry's forearm, and when she winds herself around his chest, she's long enough to coil around him three times. She regards him with glowing, red eyes. Her tongue flicks out, and the corners of her mouth hike up into a faint smile. "You have something for me." 

"Hey, Porks," Harry greets, toeing off his shoes and socks. He places the bag in front of her, and there's a rustling of paper as Pork Chop noses into the bag. "I cast a warming charm on it, so it should still be alright." He shrugs off his robe, jumper and his shirt, and grabs the comfortable, baggy AC/DC T-shirt on his bed. 

"It’s bloody tiring, trying to figure him out." Harry pulls the T-shirt over his head. "Porks?" he says when he shakes his head free from the shirt. 

Pork Chop withdraws her head from the bag, flashing Harry an unnaturally wide grin as her jaws flex and unhinge for her to swallow the pork chop; this means she can't talk for a while. She waggles her tail at him, urging him to go on. He slumps down on the floor beside her, tipping his head back on the wall. "I've mentioned him a few times before, you know, Draco Malfoy." 

Pork Chop gives him an unamused look. 

"Okay, fine, maybe a lot more than a few times. I saw him tonight." Harry tells her about their antagonistic interactions. "It clearly meant nothing to him, and I feel so silly about it all, after what I told him that night..." 

_I've wanted this for so long, you have no idea_ , Harry said between kisses, licks and nibbles as he pressed Malfoy up against the wall. Malfoy felt incredible in his arms, his trembling body so responsive to him, and his arse, Merlin, the perfectly round globes of his arse, so pliant and warm as Harry groped him greedily. _Harry, oh God, don't stop_ , Malfoy panted into Harry's neck as he arched into his touch.

He still can't forget what his first name sounded like, moaned from Malfoy’s luscious lips.

"Will you take this biped, the Head of the noble House of Slytherin, as your mate, then?" 

Harry shakes himself out of that salacious memory and stares at Pork Chop, incredulous. 

"Have you been listening? I've spent the past ten minutes telling you how we came this close to having a shouting match the first time we’d spoken in years." 

Pork Chop rolls her eyes. "Yes, but I can smell your arousal. You clearly still want to mount him." 

"Don't... don't say it like that!" Harry hisses, embarrassed. "Anyway, enough about him. How was your first day here? It’d take some time getting used to things, coming from London." 

Pork Chop slithers up onto Harry's outstretched legs, and considers the question. "It's not as bad as I thought. It's nice and quiet, and the air is clean here. The castle intrigues me, and I like the grass at the Quidditch pitch. It feels very nice against my scales." She lifts her head up and flicks her tongue out in delight, uncharacteristic excitement brimming in her voice. "Oh, and I get to see Charlie every day if I want to!" 

"You and Charlie. Sometimes I reckon you like him more than me." 

A pause. 

"But I do like him more than you, Harry."

She hisses with glee at Harry's feigned, injured air, and takes the sting out of her words by nuzzling her head on his arm and moving further up to his thighs, wrapping her neck around his wrist, cuddling him. "I can hunt in the big Forest nearby, although my instincts tell me that not all of its inhabitants will be friendly." 

Harry agrees with her, but he's not too worried — Pork Chop is a crafty and smart fire-breathing Ashwinder that is able to camouflage, she's more than capable of taking care of herself. 

"Remember what McGonagall said, though. You've got to stay away from the students," Harry reminds her. "Hang on, how d’you get around the castle anyway? I know you've got a good sense of direction, but things can be quite confusing, yeah?" 

"Oh, it's alright. I just followed the voice in the walls." 

"What?" Horrified, Harry sits up straight so quickly that half of Pork Chop's body falls to the floor. "It can't be the Basilisk, I bloody well killed it!" He turns panicky eyes onto Pork Chop. "Did you listen to it? What did it tell you? Did you go into the Chamber—" He stops short at the mischievous glimmer in her eyes, glowing as red as embers.

"That's it. No more pork chops for you," Harry grumps. 

"Nooo," she whines, that single word emerging in a long, desperate hiss. "Don't take my pork chops away."

And that's how she got her name — her other sources of food might be live animals, but for some reason, she really, really likes pork chops, raw or cooked.

"I navigate by sight and scent. Each part of the castle smells different." She fixes Harry with a beady look. "So what are you going to do about your biped?" 

He shrugs. "Dunno. We'll stay out of each other's way, like he said. McGonagall's right, we're hardly boys anymore, so I'm sure things will be alright." 

Her eyes gleam. "But he looked good tonight, didn't he?"

He releases a short bark of laughter. Malfoy is still as prim and proper as ever, and his current hairstyle reminds Harry of their sixth year, loose, not slicked back like at the Academy. He’s put on a bit of weight too, no doubt due to the lavish meals at Hogwarts, but he wears it well. Harry likes how he looks now, more approachable and less pointy. It’s clear that teaching suits Malfoy; he looks so at ease in Hogwarts. 

It's been seven long years, and Malfoy still has the nicest, _tightest_ arse that Harry's ever seen. 

_Fuck._

* * *

Ever since he’s been a professor at Hogwarts, Draco has never been late for anything. 

Of course, the first time he is late has to be on the first morning of term, when his whole House is waiting for their class schedules. Draco looks into the mirror and quickly pats his hair, thanking the founders for his habit of setting out his clothes and things the night before. He jams his tie and wand into his pockets, fastens his robes and grabs the sheaf of schedules off his table. He exits his chambers and hurries towards the Great Hall, breaking into an undignified run when students from the other Houses are already streaming into the corridors.

When he bursts into the Hall, only the Slytherin table is still full. The six Slytherin prefects jump to their feet. "Are you alright, sir? You're never late," Marjorie Kellen, one of his seventh-year prefects, asks. 

"I'm alright, thank you for your concern," he says to her, and then addresses his House. "My apologies, everyone. I had a late start this morning. If your teachers should ask you about your tardiness, please tell them that it is entirely my fault," he says, inclining his head. "I have your class schedules, and they're sorted by year. I will hand them to your prefects, and they will assist me in distributing them. Please leave at once to your first class when you have your schedule." 

After that’s all sorted out, Draco breathes a sigh of relief when the last of Slytherin House files out. He's the only one left in the Hall. He checks his watch — fifteen minutes since the start of first period. Add another five to ten minutes of travelling time, which means the latest that they'll be late for would be twenty-five minutes. 

All because of him. 

Salazar, what sort of impression is he setting for his students? 

Annoyed with himself, he takes his seat at the faculty table and begins to tuck into his breakfast. He's lucky there's no Defence lesson for the first period of this particular weekday, granting him enough time for a leisurely meal. 

Draco chews angrily on his toast at the reason for his tardiness. 

It's all Potter's fault, winding him up like that last night, getting him all hot and bothered until he couldn't sleep properly, and even in his fitful slumber, he was bombarded by explicit dreams of Potter. Why did Potter have to bring the kiss up, fooling Draco into thinking that for years, just like him, Potter hadn't been able to forget that heated kiss?

Draco woke up with a throbbing erection, one that was impossible to ignore, and since his alarm was silent, he indulged in a luxurious wank — _have you been thinking about me, Potter, because I have. I'm thinking about you so hard right now, just knowing that you're in the same building, fuck, have you ever wanked while fantasising about me_ — until he came so hard he saw stars. 

It was only during his afterglow when he realised that something was terribly wrong. By now, he should be hearing some signs of life from his students exiting the dungeons for breakfast — as per tradition, the rooms of the Heads of Houses are near their House — but everything was eerily silent. 

Unbeknownst to him, he switched his alarm off.

And that's why he was late. 

Because of Potter and his own stupid, raging libido. 

Draco finishes his toast and drains his orange juice. He loops his tie around his neck, straightens his robes and then closes his eyes, taking a moment to steady himself. His first class of the day is with the seventh-years, a class that he particularly enjoys. Feeling more composed and ready for the first day of term, he leaves the Hall and heads for his classroom.

On the way there, who else should he run into but Harry bloody Potter, looking like a walking wet dream in his Quidditch leathers? 

Draco doesn't know whether to laugh or cry. 

Potter looks surprised and a bit wary, but he stands his ground. "Late night, Malfoy? Didn't catch you at breakfast this morning." 

_Merlin, wouldn't you want to know?_

Draco’s mouth turns dry as he eyes Potter up. Salazar, how many times has he wanked to Potter in his Quidditch attire? Last year, the day after the British national team won the Quidditch World Cup, there was no escaping the photographs plastered on the cover of every British magazine and newspaper of Potter catching the Snitch during the final, clinching the Cup for the country. Potter was so unattainable then, yet now, he's right in front of him, close enough to touch. 

Draco's hands curl, and he quickly crosses his arms. 

Potter was at the height of his flying career; young and fit, he could've earned more riches and fame by playing for better-paying clubs and supporting endorsements. Instead, what did he do? 

He threw it all to the wind and returned to Hogwarts to teach. 

_I can never figure you out, Potter._

"You alright, Malfoy? You're staring," Potter says, tilting his head. 

Draco has carved out a quiet, peaceful career in Hogwarts, and he certainly doesn't need Potter messing things up for him. Besides, why is he decked out in Quidditch gear anyway — flying lessons and Quidditch trials start only two weeks into term. _Probably going to perform for his fan club._

"Just leave me alone, please," Draco mutters, his good mood rapidly dissipating. He makes to push past Potter, but the other man catches his elbow and yanks him closer. 

"What the hell is your problem, Malfoy? I've done nothing to deserve this shit attitude from you." A familiar fiery gleam enters narrowed green eyes, and Draco's heartbeat ramps up.

"What part of _leave me alone_ do you not understand? Or do you think I'm up to something again, following me around like in sixth year?"

"I wasn't wrong then, was I?" 

Draco stares at him, speechless in his sudden fury. "How dare you bring that up," he whispers, his voice trembling with restrained rage. How could Potter say this to him? He has confided in Potter before about his sixth year, and for him to mention it so flippantly like this… "How dare you." 

"That was a low blow. I shouldn't have said that." Potter backpedals, putting his palms up. "I'm keeping you from your class. Go. Just go before we do something that we’ll regret." He tugs on his hair in frustration and takes a step back. 

No. No, this doesn't make sense, this isn't logical, Potter has never backed down from a fight before. 

He saunters towards Potter, like how he used to. "We should sort it out now, shouldn't we? Besides, we're adults now, no longer schoolboys itching for a fight. Perhaps we got off on the wrong foot, just like our first year. You want a welcome gift from me, Potter?" he taunts, his words as sudden and pointed as a volley of darts. He grabs Potter by the collar, and shoves him up against the wall. The hitch in their breaths tells Draco that they're thinking about the same thing. "Want me to kiss you again?" he says, sneering. "Did you miss it? Is that why you were so angry last night? Pissed that I didn’t run into your arms yesterday and snog you good and proper?" 

It’s clear that Potter’s anger is escalating, his eyes sharpening in combat, and scorn quivering in his voice. "Fuck you, Malfoy. You're gonna throw this back in my face? I'm still waiting for you to tell me why you fucking left the Academy!"

Draco shouldn't enjoy goading Potter like this.

He really shouldn't.

"Boo fucking hoo, we're still harping about that, I see," Draco taunts, modulating the pitch of his voice into one that he knows will enrage Potter further. "Did I break your poor little heart? It was just one kiss, don't tell me that you—" 

Draco doesn't have time to dodge Potter's fist when it flies towards his face.

"You bastard! You utter, fucking prick!" Draco hollers, cradling his jaw in his palm. The metallic tang of blood in his mouth propels him to further heights of fury. He lunges towards Potter, and they're rolling around on the floor in a tangle of punching and kicking limbs. 

It's well and good to use magic to fight, but there's something primal and satisfying about going at it the old-fashioned way. This is familiar ground, this adrenaline rush as they provoke each other. The years fall away, and it’s just them in the halls of Hogwarts, the two of them locked in a passionate fight. It's gratifying and exhilarating, having all of Potter's attention on him. This is right, this is perfect... 

This is how it should be. 

"You deserved that, ferret, don't tell me you didn't!" Potter snarls through gritted teeth, staggering backwards after he receives an elbow to the ribs. Potter aims another punch at Draco's chest, but Draco is too agile, dodging the hit mere seconds before it lands. 

"Going back to school nicknames again, are we? Let's see about that, Scarhead!” Draco grunts when a fist slams into his shoulder. He regroups quickly, hauling Potter close and hissing, “You couldn’t have missed me much, could you? All of your fucking conquests in the _Prophet._ Couldn’t keep it in your pants, eh? Tell me, how many did you take to the loo and kiss them like what you did to me?”

A noxious cocktail of jealousy, resentment and disappointment flares in Draco at the memory of opening the paper and seeing details of Potter’s love and sex life splashed on the gossip pages. Whenever he saw it, he would storm into his room for an angry wank. 

“Jealous, are we?” Potter laughs maliciously, and he whispers, his breath gusting across Draco’s ear. “Is that what you want? Me sneaking out of your house in the dead of the night after a good, long shag? Having you so hard and fast ‘til you can’t walk properly the next morning?” 

Draco’s thighs clench at once, lust surging at Potter’s words, but he tamps it down, forcing his rage back to centre stage. Incensed, he aims a fist at Potter’s side, but gasps in pain when Potter dodges and his knuckles connect with the floor instead. 

"Learn how to punch, _bitch_!" Potter croons. 

A collective gasp rings out a short distance away, and they both look up, freezing like a Kneazle in a _Lumos_ when they see two separate crowds of students standing outside the adjacent classrooms, bristling with shock and excitement. Both men barely have enough time to react before Minerva hurries through, the students parting to make way for their Headmistress, who gasps in horror, her eyes widening behind her spectacles. 

"Professor Malfoy, Mr Potter! What in heaven’s name is the meaning of this?" 

They spring apart at once. Draco gazes at the students gaping at them, and humiliation washes over him, his face heating as rational thought finally catches up to his rash, impulsive actions. He’s a professor, he’s supposed to be setting an example. _Potter started it_ , he is tempted to accuse, like he used to, but he swallows it down. They have no right to point fingers at each other.

He sneaks a glance at Potter, who looks equally aghast. “Professor,” Potter starts, then stops. “Minerva, I mean—“ 

“I do not want to hear your excuses,” Minerva says, her voice laced with steel. “We will speak in my office.” She turns to the students, sweeping all of them with a stern eye. “Back to class, all of you!”

Although they dutifully shuffle back to their classrooms, Draco can still hear them whispering about the fight as Potter and him, with their heads bowed and shoulders slumped, trudge behind Minerva. The shame swirling in his belly magnifies at the thought of the entire school gossiping about this at lunch, and Draco glances at Potter. Potter is as dishevelled as him, hair sticking up at all ends, one arm of his glasses bent and his Quidditch leathers askew. There’s a bruise forming around his right eye. Draco’s jaw throbs with pain, his tongue feeling particularly heavy inside his mouth. 

Potter gazes back, answering with an equally miserable look. 

Minerva doesn’t spare them a glance the entire way, except when they’re at the Headmaster’s Tower, waiting for the circular, moving staircase to grind to a stop. At her disappointed look, Draco ducks his head and looks away briefly. She straightens her hat — she was walking so fast that it became crooked — and climbs the stairs. She doesn’t even wait for the door to close fully before ripping into them, skipping disapproval and sailing straight into outright anger. 

“Never in Hogwarts’s illustrious history, have we had two teachers fighting like that! What an absolute disgrace!” she lashes out. 

They recoil, shrinking away from her. 

“The first people I have to lecture before lunch, on the first day of term, and it’s not even the students! The separate talks that I’ve had with the both of you seem to have fallen on deaf ears,” she continues, skewering them with a furious glare. “I was afraid that something like this would happen, but regressing into full-fledged fisticuffs, in front of the students?” She shakes her head in disgust. 

Draco glances at the two large portraits, currently empty, hanging behind her desk. Thank goodness Dumbledore and Severus aren’t around to witness this mortifying tongue-lashing, although he knows they’ll learn about it eventually. 

Minerva rounds on Draco, and he gulps. “Potter’s never had a good temper on him, but you’ve always been the more level-headed one. I was hoping that having been a professor here for three years, you would exhibit more restraint.” She fixes him with a hard stare. “Apparently, I was mistaken.”

Shame roils in Draco’s gut. 

“I’m sorry, Headmistress,” Potter says in a small voice. 

“My deepest apologies, Minerva,” Draco slurs, wincing at the pain radiating from his jaw. He has just enough time to patch it up with magic and some ointment in his chambers, and then hurry to his first class. “Please rest assured that it will never happen again.” 

Minerva takes a deep breath and steps back, calming down. “If there is another altercation, I will sentence the both of you to detention.” At their protests, she raises a hand, and they fall silent. “If you are to act like students, you will be punished like so. One more time, whether it is a physical fight or a nasty exchange of words, and you will be scrubbing out cauldrons and wiping down old trophies.” She looks at her watch, and then regards them over her spectacles, her lips pressed into a thin line of dismay. “Now, off with you. I believe that you have your seventh-years to teach, Professor Malfoy.”

Draco nods, and Potter mumbles another apology. Suitably chastised, they turn tail and flee. They look at each other only when they’ve descended the staircase, and Draco sees his own guilt and weariness reflected in sad green eyes. 

This scenario is not new — they’ve been in a similar situation before, standing in numb silence outside Robards’s office after being yelled at for fighting during a duelling session in the Academy. 

_What is it about Potter that makes me act out like this?_

Without a word, they turn and walk off in opposite directions.

* * *

Draco wraps his cloak tighter around his shoulders when a sudden wind gusts through the pitch. One of the first-years yelps when his broom lurches, and Potter quickly waves his wand in his direction to stabilise him.

It’s two weeks into term, and Draco’s watching the flying lesson for the first-year Slytherin and Gryffindor students. He always makes it a point to attend every year if he’s not teaching, keen on assessing each cohort. Slytherin won the Quidditch Cup for the past two years, much to Charlie’s dismay, and Draco is eager to see their winning streak continue. 

However, this year’s class appears to be quite… different. 

Although most of the students are in the air, with more accomplished fliers circling a small area of the pitch, Potter is also keeping a watchful eye on four first-years — three Gryffindors and one Slytherin (Leo Thompson) — who are kicking a ball around. They’re not divided into teams; they’re still familiarising themselves with running and passing the ball to each other. 

Draco recognises the activity as Muggle football; out of curiosity, he and Pansy have watched a few games shown on televisions in Parisian sports bars. However, they certainly weren’t as interested in the game per se, focusing more on the players.

When Leo takes a rough tumble on the grass, Potter steps towards him, but stops when one of the Gryffindors — Jason… White, if Draco isn’t wrong — offers him a hand. “Alright there, Leo?” Potter calls. When Leo nods and promptly returns to the game, Potter smiles and turns his attention to the fliers, refreshing the cushioning charms for some students and barking at others when they fly too high or ascend too quickly. 

Once again, Draco finds his gaze returning to Potter, who is dressed in very Muggle exercise attire — a dark blue T-shirt (sure, it’s a Magpies T-shirt, but still), knee-length shorts and running shoes. Draco certainly isn’t complaining, though — he’s too busy admiring the way the shirt stretches across Potter’s shoulder blades and his taut stomach. Although Potter’s body isn’t the broad-shouldered and bulging muscles type (like Charlie), he still looks brilliant, keeping his lithe frame as a Seeker. His knees are still as knobbly, and Salazar, he looks even fitter now. Draco eyes his well-developed calves, the smooth gait when he runs, and the tendons shifting in his strong forearms when he adjusts the positioning of a student on her broom.

After a while, Potter claps his hands. “That’s all the time we’ve got today, you lot! You’ve got just enough time to wash up before dinner.” 

“Aw, we don’t wanna stop!” Jason yells. He kicks the ball up into the air, and Leo lunges forward to catch it. “Can we team up and score goals next time? I want Leo on my team.” 

Draco smiles when Leo breaks into a toothy grin and nods fervently. “Could we, please, Mr Potter? It’ll be loads of fun!” 

Out of his first-years, Leo — an only child — is the shy one, keeping mostly to himself during lessons, and Draco is pleased to see him step out of his shell like this. 

“Yeah, we can do teams, if everyone’s keen on that,” Potter replies. 

The four football players grab their House robes, which are scattered on the ground, and shrug them on. Leo and Jason wave goodbye to each other before re-joining their fellow housemates. Draco watches as the students head back to the castle, nodding at them when they greet him. 

Potter jogs over to him. “Hey.” 

Draco gives him a small, tentative smile. This is their first conversation since the fight, and he’s uncertain as to how Potter would react. “Good evening.” He gestures to the jumble of brooms. “I trust my students haven’t been giving you trouble?” 

“Nope.” Potter picks up his water bottle and takes a long, deep drink.

Draco’s eyes linger on the bob of his Adam’s apple. 

Potter wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Unlike us. We were a right nightmare to Hooch, yeah?” He tosses the bottle on the grass and sits down on the stands beside Draco. “With Neville’s Remembrall,” he adds, chuckling. 

Draco groans at the memory. “If I had known that that would make you the youngest Seeker in a century, I wouldn’t have done that at all.” He sits up straight, focusing on his second purpose of attending today’s lesson. “I’ve been a prat since my first year here as a student, and once again, at your first year on the faculty. I would like to apologise for that day. You clearly backed off, but I was the one that goaded you.” He indicates Potter’s eye. “I’m glad that your injury has healed.” 

“Yeah, it’s been two weeks.” Potter looks at his jaw. “Yours?”

“It’s alright now, although I was slurring quite a bit during my first class that day.” 

Potter sighs. “I’m sorry, too. I let my temper get the better of me. Charlie gave me a right talking-to when I went over to his hut to rant about things.” 

“For what it’s worth, he told me off too,” Draco says, casting his mind back to Charlie storming into his quarters after dinner that evening, demanding his side of the story. The aftermath of the fight was awful, whispers breaking out around Draco when he passed students in corridors, and the rest of the faculty being on edge when Potter and he were in the same room. It took a few days for the furore to fade. 

“I’m tired of fighting,” Potter says. 

“I am, too.” Draco blinks rapidly when the other man inches closer. 

“Good to know we’re on the same page,” Potter says, his words soft and his eyes intense. 

Having him in such close proximity after so long is driving Draco’s heartrate up. His dreams of Potter have become more vivid since the fight, and in one dream, they ended up shagging after the fight, with Potter climbing on top of him, hitching up his robes and—

“I assume that’s the Muggle part of your classes? The football?” Draco asks hurriedly, pointing at the ball to restrain the overwhelming urge to slide his hand up Potter’s thigh, exactly what he did in a dream, sweet Salazar—

“Yeah. I wanted to shake things up a bit, because simply providing one sport — Quidditch — for the entire school seems quite limiting to me,” Potter says. “I know it’s worked for ages, but perhaps it’s time for a change, y’know? Quidditch isn’t for everyone. Like Hermione, she didn’t fancy it at all, so she felt rather excluded.” 

Draco recalls Pansy’s uncertainty at the sport, although he can’t imagine her kicking a ball around the field, either. 

“Take Leo, for example. He’s scared of heights, and a few Muggle-born students aren’t keen on flying,” Potter continues. “Of course, I encourage them to try it out, but I don’t see any point in forcing them, in making them feel inferior if their friends are rocketing around on a broom.” His voice drops, and he looks away. “No child should feel inferior, to feel like they don’t belong.” 

Draco knows bits and pieces about Potter’s childhood, titbits of information revealed by Potter himself during their time together in the Academy. He knows that his Muggle relatives didn’t treat him well, but he’s hardly privy to the full extent of things, not having wanted to push Potter too much on such an intensely private matter.

“Well, it’s obvious they enjoyed football,” Draco says, hoping to smooth over the sudden tension. 

Potter brightens. “They did, yeah? Having a few sports to try out would make things exciting, and the exercise would help their fitness and to relax from homework and school, too.” 

Draco leans forward with interest. “It seems like you plan to introduce more than football.”

“Yeah!” Potter says, warming up to his theme. “Football and basketball are definitely things I’d like to include this term. If there are some kids who aren’t interested in competitive sports, running and calisthenics are also possible. I’d like to add tennis, and maybe rugby for the older kids, but I’m really just starting, I’ve still got to sort out the space constraints and demand for each sport.” He pauses, frowning. “Swimming would be interesting, but I reckon including proper exercise attire like shorts and sports shoes in the students’ packing list this term has raised enough eyebrows already.” 

“Where did you get all of these new ideas from?” 

“From my training with the Magpies. A few of us wanted to do something different, so we went to Seamus and Dean’s Muggle sports complex — I don’t know if you’ve been there before — and tried out loads of things. I’m not an expert on everything, of course.” 

“These different alternatives sound intriguing.” Potter’s enthusiasm is infectious, and Draco finds himself nodding along with him.

“They can sign up for the sports they wanna try. I’d like to get them to mix around outside of their houses too, so they’ll be separated based on sports, and not by years or Houses. Don’t worry, I won’t change anything about Quidditch, if you’re worried about that?” 

Draco laughs. “No, I think you’re more than capable enough to sort this out.” He’s heard from his older students that Potter is much more hands-on than Rolanda, attending Quidditch team trials for all the Houses. 

“D’you want to come and sit in on a class one day?” Potter looks intently at Draco, eyes sparkling with interest behind his glasses. “I’ve still got to look at their sign-ups and sort out the schedule, but you should come and watch, maybe even participate.” He rubs his earrings with a thumb and an index finger, saying uncertainly, “I mean, if you’d like to.” 

“We’ll see about that,” Draco says, cushioning the ambiguity of his answer with a smile. He glances at his watch. “I have to go for dinner now, I’ve got to work on the content for Duelling Club this term. The first session starts in early October.”

“Sure.” Potter stands up and stretches, revealing a strip of tanned skin and the jut of his hip. “Can I come and watch? Would bring back memories.” 

“If you’d like to,” Draco says, standing up too and brushing his robes down. He glances at the pile of broomsticks and the lone football, tempted to spend more time with Potter under the guise of helping him to pack up. However, today’s progress is good enough, and with their volatile relationship, Draco doesn’t want to risk any chance of ruining this fragile truce. 

“Have a good night, Potter.” 

“See ya around,” he replies with an easy smile. 

As Draco walks back to the castle, he can feel Potter’s eyes on him.

* * *

It's brilliant seeing Malfoy in his element.

He moves out of Harry's sight, threading his way through the duelling groups of seventh-year Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs. Harry quickly pushes away from the southern wall of the Middle Courtyard and steals through the row of stone pillars, discreetly keeping Malfoy in his view. Harry loves how he moves — that graceful, long-legged stride, and his soft blond hair rustling in the late afternoon breeze — as he paces amongst the students, pausing every few steps to correct their inflection or wand technique. For once, Malfoy's not dressed in his robes, and Harry basks in the sight of Malfoy in dark-grey trousers (that hugs his arse just right, goddamn) and plain black button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His Mark is obvious, but neither he nor his students seem to care. 

A warmth of nostalgia envelops Harry, and he smiles — it reminds him so much of Dumbledore's Army. He recalls his own duel with Malfoy during Duelling Club in their second year, and tries to remember the exact sequence of spells cast. 

Malfoy stops beside a pair. He exchanges words with them, accompanied by sketching wand movements in the air with his hands. He takes the place of one student, engaging the Hufflepuff in combat while her partner watches. Intrigued, Harry sits on a bench, staying in the shadows as he rakes Malfoy's form with an admiring gaze. Compared to Auror training, Malfoy's movements are more fluid and precise as he trades a flurry of spells with the student. His concentration is tight and intense as he picks apart the cracks in his opponent's advanced shield charm and follows up with an _Expelliarmus_ , sending her wand sailing through the air, and into the hand of her partner.

After providing a few more pointers, Malfoy looks up at the spot along the wall where Harry had been, frowning when he doesn't see him. 

Harry grins.

Grey eyes scan the vicinity, and Malfoy's expression relaxes when Harry meets his gaze.

They're so busy staring at each other that Harry doesn't notice the stunning spell flying towards him, hitting the floor just centimetres away from his leg, cracking the tile. He leaps up at once, his hand snapping to his wand. 

"Sorry, Mr Potter!" yells a horrified Ravenclaw a few pairs away. Harry waves back, signalling that it's alright. The students quieten down at the outburst, craning their heads to look at Harry.

"Say, Professor Malfoy," Carina Lee — Harry recognises her from basketball — a Hufflepuff, pipes up. "When you were in school with Mr Potter, weren't you in the Duelling Club together?"

"Yes, but our professor was Gilderoy Lockhart, who wasn't really much of a teacher, to be honest," Malfoy replies. 

"Well, I think it'd be really cool if we could watch a duel between you and Mr Potter," Carina says, amidst a ringing chorus of agreement from the others. 

Malfoy blinks at them, startled. "I'm sure Mr Potter didn't plan on duelling anyone today, and it's hardly fair to expect him to do so." 

"Most of us have been training in order to enter the Academy," Carina points out. "Wouldn't it be useful to watch a duel between two highly skilled wizards such as Mr Potter and yourself?" 

Harry raises his eyebrows. He didn't know that these were potential Auror candidates — this explains why their spells are a lot more polished than he expected. 

Another round of encouragement ripples across the crowd. Malfoy's eyes flicker to Harry. "I... well..." It's clear that his protests are crumbling in the face of his students' enthusiasm, and only then does Harry move closer, not wanting to agree to something that Malfoy truly objects to; this is his class, after all. 

The crowd parts to make way for Harry, and he stands in front of Malfoy. He lifts his hands, raising his palms upwards, and a corner of his lips quirk up into a smirk. He shrugs nonchalantly. "I'm game if Professor Malfoy is."

Malfoy's eyes widen, and his hand clenches around his wand. 

Harry's throwing down his gauntlet, and there's no way in hell that Malfoy will back down from a challenge like this. 

Malfoy's mouth turns up into a slow smile. "It's on then, Mr Potter." 

A thrill shivers in Harry at the way he says _Mr Potter._

The students cheer, and they retreat to a safe distance, settling down on the stone benches lining the courtyard. 

Harry hasn't taken his eyes off Malfoy, and neither has the other man. The remains of an amused smile lingers on Malfoy's lips, although his eyes are serious. Snapshots of memories zip through Harry's mind like quicksilver: of their practise duels in the Academy, their fights during the War, and lastly, standing in the Great Hall with their wands raised like this in front of a crowd bristling with excitement, when they were twelve, with Lockhart behind him and Snape behind Malfoy.

_"Scared, Potter?"_

_"You wish."_

It feels like it was yesterday. 

They incline their heads. 

"Just think of it as my contribution to training the next generation of Aurors," Harry mutters. 

"Still so damn full of yourself, Potter," Malfoy whispers, a twinkle in his eye. 

Harry's grin widens.

They whirl around, their backs towards each other. 

Something tightens in the pit of Harry's belly — the coiling of a nervous, exhilarating energy that is all too familiar — like the sensation right before he dives fast and hard into a Wronski Feint. 

He takes a step away. 

One. 

There's a reason why Malfoy was considered one of the best duellers in their Auror batch, why Harry enjoyed fighting him the most. When they fight, it's almost like a conversation, a dance between two equally matched partners, each with strangely compatible strengths and weaknesses. 

Two. 

_Weak spot: his left ankle, chronic injury during a stakeout. Favours his right side, so attack on his left. He's quicker, more defensive and skilled in wandless magic, but I'm stronger with better offenses._

Three. 

Harry turns. 

_Prone to nostalgia when it comes to me, which means he'll start off with—_

_"Everte Statum!"_ Malfoy cries, kicking things off with his first spell cast during their Duelling Club debacle. But Harry's ready for it, so he shrugs off this second-year jinx with a weak defence charm. 

_"Rictusempra!"_ Harry shouts, silver light shooting out from his wand. The only pronounced effect the Tickling Charm has on Malfoy is a loud, piercing giggle, and he quickly covers his wheezing mouth, although his shoulders are still shaking as he ends the spell. He didn't block it, which tells Harry he's expecting this harmless charm. 

_Did you think I'd forget, Malfoy?_

When Malfoy aims at Harry's knees, Harry sprints towards the large marble fountain of the four founders in the middle of the courtyard, leaping behind it to hide his legs. _His Dancing Feet Spell needs a clear view of my legs to work._ He smiles at Malfoy’s frustrated snarl, and pokes his head out, peering around Rowena Ravenclaw's ample bosom and ransacking his mind for Snape's counter-curse to Malfoy's next spell.

_"Serpensortia!"_

A long, black snake emerges from the tip of Malfoy's wand, and a collective gasp rings out from the students. Harry leaves the shelter of the fountain and saunters towards the snake. It turns, its forked tongue flicking at him as it raises itself.

Harry tilts his head thoughtfully at it. _"Sorry,"_ he says. _"Vipera Evanesca!"_

The snake vanishes in a column of black smoke. 

Malfoy laughs, a clear, bright sound of delight that elicits a smirk from Harry. Their eyes meet, and a buzzing anticipation sings in Harry's blood at Malfoy's wicked grin. 

_Come on, Potter. Enough of the warm-up. Let's give them a proper show._

They circle each other warily. 

_You asked for it._

_"Expelliarmus!"_ Harry cries, and Malfoy's wand flies out of his hand. But Malfoy merely flicks his fingers lazily, murmuring the counter spell, and his wand hangs, suspended, in mid-air, before hurtling back into his palm in an impressive display of wandless magic and reflexes. 

_So predictable, Potter. Your signature spell, again. Did the Academy teach you nothing?_

Harry fires off a particularly vicious stunning spell towards Malfoy's left ankle, the curse so potent that the air around its path shimmers. Malfoy barely has time to dodge and collect his wits to throw up a Shield Charm. 

_I'm not playing around anymore, Malfoy. It's your left ankle that's problematic, isn't it?_

_"Accio_ Harry Potter's glasses!" Malfoy calls. Harry's glasses jump off his face, and his world is thrown into a confusing blur of shapes and colours, but he doesn't panic. Without missing a beat, he grips his wand and casts a formidable summoning spell in the general vicinity. His glasses zoom back into his outstretched palm, and he quickly puts them on. Summoning his glasses is second nature, drilled into him by Robards.

"You're hardly trying—" he starts, but stops abruptly. 

Malfoy is gone.

 _Come and get me, Potter._

Harry blinks, and he nudges his glasses higher up his nose. Malfoy couldn't have cursed his glasses, could he? He glances at the students, who are fully absorbed in the duel, but are not giving him any clues about Malfoy's whereabouts. He whirls around on the spot, scanning the environment for anything suspicious, perhaps hints of shoes sinking into the grass or a shimmer in the air, but comes up short.

 _He must be Disillusioned._ Before Harry can cast any scouting charms, there's a whisper to his left, and he spins around to see a white jet of light coming his way — a body-bind curse. He dodges, but he's not fast enough; the curse grazes his right calf, and he stumbles, his leg growing numb. It's not a full body-bind curse, and it's weak enough to fade away within seconds. Harry looks at Malfoy when he re-emerges on his left. 

_I should've cast revealing charms sooner._ Harry frowns at his rusty duelling skills, and then jabs his wand at Malfoy. _"Silencio!"_ he shouts, and Malfoy's eyes widen. He opens his mouth, but only a croak comes forth. Looking wonderfully cornered, he backs away towards the eastern wall of the courtyard. 

_I’ve got you where I want you, Malfoy._

Harry grins in triumph, and he advances with increasing speed, the tingling in his leg already gone, replaced by another burst of adrenaline sending his heart pumping. His smile fades, and his follow-up curse wilts on his lips when Malfoy smirks and twirls his wand at two suits of armour standing guard nearby. 

Harry gapes when the suits of armour judder to life, as if waking from a deep slumber. Some students let out impressed gasps, while a handful cry out in alarm, flinching away from the animated suits when they jump down from the plinths, their large and heavy shields raised. Malfoy scuttles behind the suits, seeking refuge as the enchanted soldiers march towards Harry. 

_It's a delaying tactic until my Silencing Charm wears off._

Determined, Harry shoots a stunner at their shields, but he's the one that ends up evading the rebounded curse when the shields deflect it. He knows a variant of the Reductor Curse that is strong enough to blast them into pieces, and he raises his wand, poised.

_I don’t reckon you’d like another trip to the Headmistress’ office, this time for destroying school property, eh, Potter?_

Harry growls in frustration, dismissing the curse. _I can't approach them head-on_. He swerves to the right, trying to catch a space large enough to squeeze a curse, but the soldiers are too responsive to Malfoy's movements, staying right in front of him. After a brief standoff, the suits of armour stand to attention and salute Malfoy, before clomping back to their resting places. 

Harry is ready with a _Protego_ when Malfoy shoots a stinging jinx and stunning curse in quick succession. 

_Are those your defenders? Well, I've got mine too._

Without thinking, Harry huffs in irritation and casts a Patronus Charm, drawing gasps of admiration from the students when his large stag bursts into life, cantering around him and rearing back on its hind legs. 

At Malfoy's stricken expression, Harry freezes. He's no doubt thinking about the Auror training when they practised their Patronus Charms, and Malfoy was the only one who failed. He stormed out, humiliated and distraught. 

_"You don't get it, do you, Potter?! Death Eaters, with the exception of Severus, can't cast lovely and wholesome things like Patronuses, guardians of the good and holy!"_

Malfoy is still staring into empty space when Harry's stag disappears. Murmurs are breaking out amongst the students, and Harry's heart clenches in dismay. Malfoy may be able to teach his students the proper technique of the Patronus Charm, but Harry heard that he still can’t produce one of his own. Isn't it bloody ironic, that a Defence professor can't produce a Patronus when it's in the sixth-year syllabus? 

He jolts Malfoy out of his daze by shooting an Impediment Jinx — a tame duelling spell — purposely missing him by a few centimetres. This does the trick, and the fiery, determined expression in furious grey eyes gives Harry a warning of what is about to come. 

_Bring it on, Potter!_

Malfoy rushes towards him, and even though Harry holds his ground, his opponent is on an all-out offensive. They trade a barrage of curses, and Harry is backing away to the middle of the courtyard, his wand whipping in the air with defensive charms, which is honestly not his forte. He ducks an _Expelliarmus_ , and he turns, facing the fountain. He flicks his wand at the water splashing in the fountain, directing it towards Malfoy, who throws a barrier charm in front of himself while advancing, thinking that Harry means to aim the water to his person. 

But that's not what he's planning. 

Harry orders the flood of water to the ground in front of Malfoy, forming a slick puddle on the grass, already slippery from the earlier rain. Malfoy yelps as he skids on the ground, his left ankle slipping. He crashes, and he lets out a piteous moan, cradling his ankle in his hands.

_Oh God, I've done it again, I've gone too far, like what Robards keeps telling me—_

Worried, Harry hurries over. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean—" 

He breaks off into a cry when something long and thin loops around his ankles. He looks down — the blades of grass underneath his feet are transfigured into lashing vines under Malfoy's muttered spell. The vines give a hard yank backwards, and Harry shouts, his arms braced for impact as he crashes to the ground, right beside Malfoy. 

"I think we're finished, yes?" Malfoy mutters out of the corner of his mouth. 

"Yeah," Harry says, kicking his legs free when the vines retreat, shrinking into grass. 

Malfoy stands up, his left ankle perfectly fine. "And that's how you do it," he says to the students. He bends down and offers a hand to Harry, who accepts it. He hauls Harry up from the ground to the sound of applause. 

"A few lessons you can learn from this," Malfoy says, addressing the class. He counts them off his fingers. "Use the environment to your advantage, have a wide variety of spells at your arsenal, the utility of disillusionment charms, and knowing your enemy, especially if you've fought him before. It is also useful to be physically responsive with excellent reflexes." He gestures to Harry. "And that's why I highly recommend participating in Mr Potter's lessons — they will go a long way in developing your reflexes.

"The next Hufflepuff-Ravenclaw meeting will be next Saturday, same time, at the Hufflepuff's area — the Training Grounds. I will be conducting a session for the Gryffindors and Slytherins at The Quad tomorrow. Similar to today, I will be revising the same spells that we explored last year since today is the first Duelling Club session of the year. If you would like to brush up on today's spells, please feel free to drop by. Class dismissed." 

The students shuffle out of the courtyard after thanking them, amidst excited chatters about the duel.

"Thank you for being so sporting about this," Malfoy says, finger-combing his hair. 

"The trick you did with the armour just now... is it a faculty-wide thing?" Harry asks, curious. 

Malfoy chuckles. "I knew you would ask me about that. Yes, all faculty have always had the ability to activate the suits of armour, but now, we may animate them wandlessly and non-verbally. Minerva tweaked that after the War. She might have forgotten to teach you. Perhaps you should ask her about it at dinner." 

"Wow, that's really wicked," Harry says, perking up at the image of him leading an army of soldiers. He frowns and quickly pushes that thought away — that means Hogwarts would need protecting from grave danger, and he definitely doesn’t want that again. 

"About the Patronus..." he says, trailing off when Malfoy's jaw tightens. “I didn't mean to mock you or anything like that. It was just... instinct." He looks down, scuffing his trainer on a patch of grass. "I hope you don't take it the wrong way." 

He receives a small smile in return. "Thank you for clarifying things with me." 

Harry is tempted to swallow his offer; he doesn't want to offend Malfoy. They've struck up a tenuous friendship — comfortable, easy conversation during mealtimes, and even going out to the Three Broomsticks for a pint with Charlie once — and he doesn't want to upset this fragile connection between them.

But he says it anyway.

"Would you like me to teach you the Patronus Charm?" he asks, although he steels himself for Malfoy’s lashing out. 

Instead, Malfoy considers the question, and his answer elicits a hopeful smile from Harry.

"You know what, Potter? I might take you up on your offer one day."

* * *

Draco gazes at Albus Dumbledore’s name, one of the many inscribed into the smooth dark-grey marble of the war memorial. His eyes slowly scan the other names, lingering at those that he is personally acquainted with — Vincent Crabbe, Lavender Brown, Severus Snape — and so many others. 

The first time he saw the memorial containing the names of Hogwarts-affiliated deaths, when confronted with the loss of life inflicted by his side during the War, he broke down in inconsolable tears, whispering apologies as tremendous, crippling guilt and grief flooded him. For months after, he avoided this area on the seventh floor. Now, he’s sitting on the lone bench in front of the memorial, threads of melancholy tugging on his heart. He sighs and raises his wand, conjuring a wreath of flowers and adds it to the small pile of flowers and cards — no doubt left behind by some students and other professors — at the foot of the memorial. 

His watch chimes midnight, and the golden sheen on some of the names fade away. A few other names acquire an identical golden shade — the memorial is charmed to recognise the birthdays of the fallen. 

Three full years here as a professor, and there’s still one place that he hasn’t set foot in — the Astronomy Tower. He looks at Dumbledore’s name, and then bows his head, recalling the Battle of the Lightning-Struck Tower. 

A sound behind him jolts him out of his wretched memories, and he whirls around. 

Potter is standing there, dressed in a T-shirt, jeans and Converse trainers. He shuffles from foot to foot, and raises his hand in a small wave. In return, Draco nods at him, and after a second, tilts his head to the empty space beside him on the bench.

“Can’t sleep too?” Potter says, taking the proffered seat. 

It’s rather strange how the fire in the sconces flare once, before dimming slightly, lending a soft, cosy atmosphere. The reflection of firelight dances on Potter’s glasses and earrings. 

“Yes,” Draco says. “Sleep evades me, on some nights.” He excludes mentioning his occasional nightmares.

“Yeah, me too. So I thought I’d join you, if you don’t mind.” 

Draco frowns. “How did you know I’m here?” 

“Er.” Potter’s eyes dart around. “Lucky guess.” 

“Alright,” Draco says. He’s not convinced with the answer, but he leaves it at that.

A long pause.

Potter shifts around on the bench. “We don’t have to talk if you don’t want to,” he whispers. 

“I know.” 

They lapse into a companionable silence, and for once, Potter — usually brimming with energy — is content to sit as they each pay their respects in their own way. The quiet is broken briefly when Potter conjures a bunch of flowers, stands up and lays it beside the pile of tributes. 

Time ticks by, and Draco watches with half-lidded eyes as Potter paces along the memorial and drags his hand on the cool marble, grazing his fingers past the carved names. He stops, and turns to Draco. “Why Defence Against the Dark Arts? You’ve always been better at Potions,” he blurts out, before pressing his lips together. “Sorry, I was just thinking that, you don’t have to answer if you don’t want to. We don’t have to talk.” 

“It’s alright,” Draco says. “I had the option of teaching either Defence or Potions; the Defence position was officially vacant when I learnt of it, and Horace is considering retirement, so if I wanted, I could have gone for Potions instead. But I chose Defence, because…” he trails off, wondering how to put it best into words. 

Potter sits down beside him, giving him an encouraging smile. 

“I’m sure you recall my trick with the Vanishing Cabinets,” Draco says, glossing over the horrid details of that night on purpose. 

Potter hesitates, and then nods. 

“By coming up with that… stunt,” he continues, laughing mirthlessly at that euphemism, “I demonstrated that Hogwarts, the safest magical stronghold in wizarding Britain, was no longer safe. That it could no longer protect, nor defend its students.” His hands curl into fists, a familiar surge of self-directed anger rising. “I was the person that breached this sanctuary, bringing Death Eaters, practitioners of the Dark Arts, into the castle. I wanted to make things right again. And so, I chose to teach Defence Against the Dark Arts.” 

He remembers the day when he signed his teaching contract in Minerva’s office, the ink drying on the parchment as he stared up at Dumbledore, who was beaming at him from his portrait. Beside him, Severus was looking at Draco, his black eyes giving nothing away, but the twitch of his lips was a semblance of a smile. After Draco concluded his business with Minerva, he approached Dumbledore’s portrait. 

“Welcome home, Draco,” the old, wise wizard said. 

“Thank you, sir,” Draco croaked, swallowing the emotion thickening in his throat. He turned to Severus, who sniffed and flicked his robes in his usual dramatic fashion. 

“I certainly hope you plan on taking over the position of Head of Slytherin House from Horace, Draco. It’s bad enough seeing how the walrus-shaped dunderhead teaches Potions.” 

A burst of unexpected laughter came from Draco, who immediately clapped a hand to his mouth, while Minerva barked out an admonishing _“Severus, please!”_

Potter’s chortle brings Draco back to the present. 

“Did Snape really call Slughorn a walrus-shaped dunderhead?” he says, his shoulders shaking with laughter. 

“Yes, he certainly did.” 

“Nice to see he’s still as sharp-tongued as ever,” Potter remarks. “When I went to look for McGonagall on my first day, he asked me if decent combs were in short supply after the war,” he says, gesturing to his messy head of hair. 

They share a smile. 

“I took over the Head of Slytherin position from Horace in my second year,” Draco says. “It was clear that Slytherins were still being discriminated against, which comes as no surprise after the War. It was horrid, seeing terrified first-years being sorted into Slytherin and most of the student population booing them. A bit like how it was when we were students,” he says, arching a brow at Potter. 

He doesn’t wait for a reply, and powers on, his voice spiralling upwards in volume and vehemence. “We were children! On hindsight, how could people, even teachers, assume that all Slytherins have a penchant for the Dark Arts, labelling us evil right off the bat? Did no one stop to think that perhaps Slytherins turned bad _because_ of the stereotypes that boxed us in? Certainly, most of us were close-minded and prejudiced against Muggle-borns and Muggles, but we were raised to subscribe to that doctrine. Would it not be more rewarding to nurture us, to show us that we could be successful without resorting to the Dark Arts?

“Now, I’m in a position to influence positive change. I’ve developed programmes to encourage mixing of the Houses, such as reinstating the Duelling Club. Although things are better, there are still pockets of discrimination, such as bullying, especially against the younger Slytherins, inflicted by students whose families were slaughtered by Death Eaters.” Draco sighs. “I can only hope that time and education will erode the centuries-old prejudice against Slytherins, and the mentality of Slytherins against the world.” 

Potter simply looks at Draco, his lips parted and eyes wide. 

Self-conscious, Draco clears his throat and looks down, relaxing his clenched fists and planting his palms on the edge of the bench. He uncrosses his ankles. “My apologies. Was I ranting? I didn’t mean to bore you.” 

“No, not at all! It’s brilliant hearing this from you. That’s what I feel too, although I probably can’t express it as eloquently,” Potter says, and his earnest tone makes Draco look up. 

“Yes, I see that in your classes, how you promote house unity. I like how you’re granting the opportunity for students from different Houses to try out different sports,” Draco says. Part of him is very curious about Potter’s classes, ever since Charlie bounded into his office one day, grass stains on his knees and mud smeared on his cheek, raving about Potter’s “refreshingly fun” football training. “Are my students playing fair?” 

Potter winces. “Er.” 

“You can tell me the truth. I harbour no delusions about them, and I certainly know that old traditions die hard.” 

“Some of them really are quite rough, especially the older kids, and they tend to exploit loopholes in the rules. It was a problem earlier this term, but things have settled down when they know I can be mighty stern when I want to be.” 

Draco nods. “That’s good to know.” 

There’s a lull in the conversation, and they both look ahead to the memorial. 

“Strange how it feels like nothing has changed,” Potter pipes up after a moment, motioning to the restored hall and repaired corridors beyond this room. 

Draco laughs. “It wasn’t like this when I first joined the faculty. It was obvious that the castle was furious at me for undermining her defences.” 

Potter frowns. “Angry… at you? You talk as if Hogwarts can feel emotions.”

“I will not be surprised if the castle exhibits signs of being sentient, having played host to a staggering amount of magical objects, witches and wizards for centuries,” Draco says. “My bed was cold, despite my numerous warming charms, the taps in my en-suite wouldn’t work, the locks in my room would jam, the fire in the sconces dying out whenever I stepped into a corridor. If I was alone during night patrol, my only light would be my _Lumos_. There were many, many instances when the castle made it very clear that I was far from welcome.”

“How did you make things better?” 

“I helped in its repair, and I think the passage of time helped too, once the castle knew I had no more malicious intents towards it.” 

Although the façade, along with key classrooms and structures of the castle were already repaired by the faculty, there were still some obscure wings, locked doors, neglected staircases and burnt portraits, waiting for someone patient and thorough enough to restore them to their former glory. Draco laboriously spent his free time during his first year repairing things here and there, until the castle finally stopped acting up. 

“Now, it almost likes me,” Draco says with an affectionate smile, glancing up at the walls and the lights. He addresses the castle. “Don’t you?”

The castle’s response is a warm breeze surging through the windows, and a further dimming of the fire. Tendrils of moonlight glimmer on the floor, stretching towards the base of the memorial. It is comfortable, peaceful and soporific, and Draco’s eyelids are heavy. His shoulders slump and his body relaxes, releasing the coiled-up tension gathered during his monologue about his House. He could sit here and talk to Potter for hours, perhaps even fall asleep, curled up in Potter’s arms until the warmth of dawn approaches. 

Already, his head is tipping over towards Potter, and it must be his imagination when the other man inches closer to him.

This is very peculiar; in all these years, the castle has never acted like this. 

_I don’t know what, but Hogwarts is up to something._

Frowning, Draco shakes away the slumber tugging at his senses, and he straightens up, rubbing his eyes. “I think I shall go to bed. Goodnight, Potter. Don’t stay up too late.” 

The lights go out for a second, as if the castle exhaled very heavily, before they fire up again.

 _Very, very curious._

“Goodnight, Malfoy,” comes the reply, accompanied by a wave and an easy smile.

Draco moves towards the door, but before he crosses over the threshold, he turns back and gazes at Potter’s back.

When they first stepped into Hogwarts as students sixteen years ago, they were rivals, and pawns in a war that started before their births. 

Now, they’re teachers, and things couldn’t be more different.

* * *

Draco wakes up to an unusually pleasant Saturday morning. He yawns and rolls over in bed, pushing his face into his pillow, absorbing the calm swish of the waters sounding from the window, which looks out into the Great Lake. There’s a soft tap on the glass, and he lifts his head up, waving back at the Giant Squid’s tentacle, ghosting through the swaying seaweed. 

The colour of the water is much lighter than its usual dark greenish tinge, indicating that sunlight is streaming through the lake. This is a welcome departure from recent days — late October brings with it chilly weather, a perpetual pounding of rain on castle windows. He’s been feeling cooped up lately, exacerbated by the flurry of colds inflicting both faculty and students. Perhaps today is a good day to head outdoors and bask in the sunshine with a book, before breakfast and another session of marking. 

Draco glances at the clock — it’s too early for the students to be out and about, so the lake should be deserted. He stretches, and then hauls himself out of bed. He proceeds with his daily morning routine. He kept the décor of his quarters similar to the Slytherin dungeons; outfitted in the muted colour of dark green and wooden cupboards, with silver motifs adorning the stone walls and soft green lamps.

He grabs a book, and strolls towards the shores of the lake, trekking a familiar path leading to a secluded area under his favourite tree. He inhales and smiles at the fresh, earthy scent of the outdoors and the faint tang of last night’s short drizzle. He shields his eyes with a hand as he gazes at the sunlight glimmering off the surface of the lake. Ever since he was a student, this is his favourite place outdoors to read and enjoy his solitude, with a great view of the lake. Most of the students don’t wander out this far, too.

He casts an Impervius charm to chase away dew and leftover rain, and spreads a thick blanket on the ground, settling down. The only thing that’s missing is a piping hot cup of tea, but he’ll have that for breakfast later. The long branches of the tree form a protective arch above him, and the rustling leaves cast shifting patterns of light over green grass. 

His open book beside him, Draco leans back on the trunk, folds his hands in his lap and closes his eyes, feeling entirely at peace with the world. He nudges away thoughts of mounting piles of scrolls waiting to be graded, lesson plans waiting to be implemented, along with his other staff duties. Honestly, if another third-year writes that vampires are found only in Transylvania, he will be _this_ close to chucking his inkpot into the fireplace.

There’s a splash of water a short distance away, and Draco opens his eyes, alert. Another large ripple on the surface of the lake close to the bank, and Potter emerges from the water, clambering onto the shore—

—wearing nothing but the tiniest pair of pants Draco has ever seen. 

“What the ever-loving _fuck_ ,” he mutters in shock and sudden arousal, his wide eyes glued to the view of Potter shaking his head vigorously, flicking water everywhere. He recognises the tell-tale shimmer in the air, signalling a strong warming charm around Potter. Potter approaches his pile of things, removes his goggles and bends down to pick up a towel. His mouth dry and his cock hardening, Draco’s hungry gaze follows the route of the towel working its way down Potter’s body — a quick ruffle of his hair, his shoulders, the slopes of his chest, his taut stomach. Merlin, look at the vee of those hips, and more importantly, look at that bulge tucked beneath those ridiculously small swimming pants (which must be Muggle, no decent wizarding shop would sell something that scandalous). 

Draco bites his lower lip at the tantalising sight, a hand automatically going down to his erection, pressing the heel of his palm against it. He places his book on top of his crotch, spreads his thighs just a bit, and rubs himself once, through his clothes. 

Fuck, that feels good. 

Draco retreats further into the shadows provided by the large tree. When Potter slants his body, he squints at the black ink-like marks on two locations — slightly above his left hip and a string of what looks like words occupying the inside of his right upper arm — those must be Potter’s tattoos. Draco is too far away for further scrutiny, but Potter did mention that he has a tattoo. Draco was curious, but he didn’t want to pry. _He must’ve got another one recently._

When he’s finished towelling himself off, a grinning Potter unrolls a thick mat and plops it on the ground, before collapsing onto it, his limbs sprawled out like a happy starfish. 

Apparently, Draco isn’t alone in taking advantage of the pleasant weather. 

_I need to leave, this is hardly appropriate._ Despite that thought, Draco has already popped open the button of his trousers, and his hand appears to have a mind of its own, sending half-hearted strokes along his prick. He should wank in the privacy of his room, but he’s already fantasising about tugging those tiny pants down Potter’s hips and swallowing him—

Draco’s cock throbs. 

Swearing under his breath, he pushes his book off his lap, and with wary eyes trained on Potter, who seems to be content simply sunbathing, he quickly packs his things. When Potter sits up, Draco scuttles behind the trunk, counts to five, and then slowly pokes his head out from the safety of the tree, peering. _Just one more look. One quick look—_

What he sees makes him want to drop to his knees and rub one off, right here, right now.

A half-naked Potter is doing squats. 

Draco indulges himself in the side view of Potter doing his warm-ups; fuck, look at the curve of that fine arse as he crouches and straightens up, those lovely thighs and calves. Draco’s heart is racing, and his palm lazily gliding up and down his erection. He watches as Potter launches into a medley of exercises — sit-ups (he’s too far to have a proper look, but he can imagine those abdominal muscles clenching), push-ups (those arms, sweet Merlin, the flex of his biceps) before he gets into planking position (his form, along with that lean line of his figure, is excellent). 

Draco looks down at himself. He’s on his knees, his trousers and pants down to his thighs and his cock is out. He gives a furtive look around, relaxing when they’re alone, except for the chirping of birds. 

Well, that’s it, then. 

He’s going to sneakily wank to Potter in public and in broad daylight, on the grounds of Hogwarts, as the oblivious bloke does something as innocuous as warm-ups. He should not be doing this, but how can he look away from Potter doing yoga (he knows of that activity thanks to Pansy, who has the absolute worst habit of showing off her yoga poses to a disinterested Draco — apparently, he’s interested only if it’s Potter doing it)? 

Hypnotised, Draco wets his lips and continues to thrust his cock into the circle of his fist when Potter stands up, raises his arms and clasps his hands together, his index fingers pointing skywards in a brief stretch. The waistband of Potter’s pants dip, but before Draco can crane his neck for a better look, he’s already changed position into—

“Oh, _fuck_ ,” Draco hisses and wanks faster. Potter looks so _fucking_ good, so damn hot on all fours, on his palms and knees as he arches his back (once again, the curve of that arse) and lifts his chin, before curling his body inwards, rounding his back and lowering his chin to his chest. 

Draco’s filthy mind fills in the blanks — of him fucking Potter from the back, his hands digging into the other man’s hips while he pounds hard and fast into him. Draco bites a knuckle to keep himself from crying out at that delectable image, which morphs into one of him riding Potter when Potter switches position. 

He’s lying down on his back now, his legs bent and his feet pressed onto the mat as he pumps his hips upwards in a steady tempo. With each upwards thrust, his stomach and his chest forms a straight line. Draco wonders how it’d feel like, caressing that tanned, warm skin, feeling the rapid beat of Potter’s heart under his touch as he rides Potter with abandon, the slick slide of Potter’s hard prick fucking into him as he jerks his hips up just like that, with Draco sinking down while Potter thrusts up, going in deep—

_“Is that what you want? Me sneaking out of your house in the dead of the night after a good, long shag? Having you so hard and fast ‘til you can’t walk properly the next morning?”_

“Yes, that’s what I fucking want,” Draco whispers, and releases a sound in between a sob and a moan. One more stroke, a loud huff of breath, his left palm braced against the tree trunk, and he’s coming, coming so hard and shooting his load at the base of the tree, gasping at the force of his orgasm. Spunk leaks between his knuckles, dripping down on the grass. Panting, he takes a moment to recover, and then looks up. 

Potter is pulling on a T-shirt and knee-length shorts. He rolls up the mat, puts on his glasses, gathers his things and tucks them under his arm. Whistling, he strolls towards the castle, clueless about his role in Draco’s fevered imagination and public orgasm. 

Draco tucks himself in and quickly makes himself presentable. He waves his wand, removing all traces of this momentary lapse of judgement. He sighs, and buries his head in his hands, helpless. 

_One and a half months into term, and I’m already wanking to him in public in school. How in Salazar’s name am I going to control myself for the rest of the year, and beyond?_

* * *

Harry is in mid-stretch when he spies a flash of a blond head passing by the classroom. Malfoy backpedals and moves closer to the door, peering into the room. As usual, he’s dressed impeccably, with a sheaf of scrolls cradled in his arm. Harry instructs his students to ease from the stretch, and straightens up, giving Malfoy a friendly wave.

The class, comprised of fourteen students from the lower years, greets Malfoy. Some of them, especially the Hufflepuffs and Gryffindors look rather intimidated, but Leo, a first-year Slytherin, brightens up considerably.

“Good afternoon. What are you lot up to?” Malfoy asks.

“Warm-ups and basketball drills,” Harry says, following the other man’s gaze around the room. While looking for a suitable indoor space large enough for basketball, he stumbled across an enormous abandoned classroom. He tried his best to convert it into a makeshift basketball court. Sure, the smoothness of the floor isn’t exactly like a proper court, but he’s painted red lines along the edges to demarcate borders during games, along with using magic to fix customisable basketball nets on sturdy stands. If it’s a proper game, there’ll be two nets on either side of the court, but if it’s drills, like today, there’s a series of nets, enough for the class to break into pairs and practise shooting. Since today’s kids are younger, he’s also lowered the height of the nets. 

“You can join us, if you want to,” Harry offers, flashing Malfoy an encouraging smile.

“I wouldn’t want to intrude,” he replies, although he steps inside.

Leo pipes up, “Come on, Professor Malfoy! Me and Jason—“ 

“Jason and I,” Malfoy corrects gently. 

“Jason and I really like Mr Potter’s classes, and basketball is really fun, like football, although we’re still learning. It’s loads of fun, I swear!”

Harry grins at the effusive praise. The boy might be a Slytherin, but he has the enthusiasm of a Gryffindor, probably due to Jason’s influence. Leo used to be shy, and it’s wonderful seeing him blossom into someone confident enough to offer strategies during sports. 

Malfoy smiles with affection at Leo. Harry suspects Malfoy has a soft spot for Leo, and his suspicion proves correct when Malfoy places his scrolls on a table. “Since you’re vouching for Mr Potter’s classes…” He looks down at his attire — formal robes and dress shoes. “I’m hardly dressed for this, though.” 

“I’ve got some things,” Harry says. He turns to Darren, one of his older and more experienced students. “Lead the class in warm-ups while I help Professor Malfoy get ready.” 

Harry brings Malfoy to the small wardrobe at the back of the classroom. 

“You do think of everything, don’t you?” Malfoy says, blinking at the selection of exercise attire available. He sorts through the clothes, and then stares at a neon-green sports bra. 

“That’s from a fifth-year Ravenclaw,” Harry explains. “She strolled into class wearing only that and the shortest shorts you’ve ever seen.” Malfoy darts an embarrassed glance at him, before returning his attention to the clothes. _That’s a strange reaction._ “The boys lost their collective minds, as you can imagine. I sent her straight out to change, but she didn’t want to, so… long story short, I confiscated her clothes. Although I should throw it out, eh, a bit strange to keep bras around the place.” Harry gestures to the wardrobe. “Sometimes kids lose interest, but they don’t know what to do with the clothes. If they don’t want them anymore, I keep it for others. I think this would be most suitable.” He withdraws a set of grey long-sleeved sweatshirt and sweatpants — clothes that show the least skin — and a pair of running shoes. 

Malfoy takes them, and then wrinkles his nose. 

“They’re already clean, but feel free to clean them. Sizes can be adjusted with magic.” Harry motions to the curtained-off corner. “You can change there.” When Malfoy thanks him and moves away, Harry returns to his class, taking over from Darren. Malfoy joins them soon after, picking gingerly at the sleeves of the sweatshirt and the pockets of the sweatpants.

It’s strange seeing Malfoy dressed like this, removed from the formality and rigidity of his robes, but Harry decides he rather likes seeing Malfoy in casual sweats. 

Malfoy moves to the back of the class, looks at them, and then mimics their position. He bends forward at the hips and lowers his upper body, hands gripping his right shin. 

“Hold it there,” Harry instructs. “Feel the stretch.” He walks around, pausing at times to correct some of their forms. He stops behind Malfoy, looks up… 

… and is rewarded with the sexiest, hottest sight of his arse. 

_Oh, bloody hell._

Harry stares. 

Malfoy’s bum is exquisite — firm and tight, leading down to shapely calves, the position of the stretch highlighting the length of his legs. Unencumbered by his pesky robes, Harry can even see the outline of his pants. A memory barges into his mind — of Malfoy writhing in his arms, Harry sliding his hands down Malfoy’s sides, reaching behind and squeezing the life out of that gorgeous, mouth-watering arse.

Harry quickly clasps his hands behind his back, if not he’s sure he’ll reach out and help himself to Malfoy’s arse again. He could simply tug those sweatpants down, feel that warm skin beneath his fingertips, fuck, would Malfoy moan like how he did when Harry groped him that night in the pub? Would Malfoy push his arse back into Harry’s hands, begging for more, pleading for Harry to strip him and—

Harry gulps and presses the heel of his hand on his crotch. 

Ah, fuck. 

He’s hard. 

He’s popping a stiffy, and his shorts won’t conceal anything. Panic mounting, Harry casually rests his wrist against his groin, hoping to cover it, while he brisk-walks back to the front. He bends over and stretches his right calf. 

“To your right,” he croaks, and the class follows. 

Harry wills his prick to behave. _Please go down, I swear I’ll wank properly when I’m alone, but please go down now._ It’s like he’s a student again, having inappropriate erections in class, but this time, he’s the teacher. To stop it, he thinks of Ron and Hermione, but they morph into him and Malfoy, and he’s thrusting into Malfoy while the other man’s bent over like this. 

His cock swells. 

_Fuck!_

He thinks of Minerva and Filius, only to be promptly replaced by Malfoy sprawled out on the long, mahogany table in the staff room, grabbing his own ankles and gasping for more while Harry pounds into him, hard and fast—

“Mr Potter?” Darren’s voice breaks him out of his highly inappropriate fantasies. 

Harry makes a strangled sound. 

“We’ve been stretching for really long,” Darren points out. 

_I’m as hard as a rock, and I can’t wait to shag your other teacher in this very classroom,_ Harry’s mind helpfully supplies. Instead, he clears his throat and manages, “Stretching is important. Wouldn’t want anyone to get hurt.” 

In his most desperate moment, he thinks of Molly and Arthur—

It does the trick after a few seconds, and even though he isn’t fully soft yet, it’s good enough for him to suggest a water break. The students disperse, and Harry hurries to his water bottle, taking the chance to rein in a modicum of control. 

Harry gathers the class, and he demonstrates a series of basketball drills: dribbling and crossing the court in zig-zag lines marked by orange cones; dribbling the ball between his legs and then switching hands; passing the ball within pairs; jumping directly underneath the net and scoring, swapping hands on each score.

Harry pairs up with Malfoy for half the time, but when he does his rounds, Malfoy joins Leo and Jason. Just like in Duelling Club, Harry’s gaze wanders to Malfoy, at that familiar grace as he jumps and attempts to score a basket. Not surprisingly, he is a quick study with excellent reflexes and a natural aptitude for sports. 

Although the ball did whack Malfoy on the nose a few times (it was adorable how he glared at the ball, as if it was the ball’s fault for not going into the hoop), he makes roughly half the shots that he takes, his brow furrowed in determination and a scowl on his lips. The first few times he scored, Jason and Leo cheered, and it was brilliant seeing Malfoy laugh. Grey eyes sought Harry out at once, as if he was checking if Harry saw him score. 

Of course he did, he can barely keep his eyes off Malfoy. 

Eventually, the class ends, and Harry regards all of them, a ball tucked under his arm and pressing against his hip. “Next week, we’ll work on defending, and more techniques to improve the accuracy of your shots. Once everyone is decent, we’ll team up for a game. Hopefully, after next week, you can do this.” 

Harry lobs the basketball in the air, and catches it neatly. He crosses the court, two hard dribbles to his left, and pulling back, as if defending himself from an opponent. He dribbles the remaining distance to the net, turning and spinning his body, before making a jump shot. He makes his moves fancier than normal, since Malfoy is watching. He repeats the manoeuvres a few times, varying the distance from the net that he shoots. He tries five times, with four of those shots making it in. 

“I’m still learning, like you,” he says. That’s true, he’s better at football, and Quidditch will always be his first love. “Oh yeah, Quidditch season is starting next week, so if you’re on your House teams, look out for your Captains’ announcements. Class dismissed.”

He notices the warmer disposition of the Hufflepuffs and Gryffindors towards Malfoy, going by the grins and small waves directed at him as they leave. 

“How’d you like it?” Harry asks after Malfoy has changed back into his robes. 

“It’s…” Malfoy pauses, and then smiles. “It’s my first time playing a Muggle sport, and it was more fun than I expected. Thank you for the class. I thought Jason and Leo were doing football?” 

“Yeah, but it’s been raining lately, so they wanted to try basketball. When the weather’s better, we’ll switch back to football.” Harry shrugs. “Plus I’m out on the pitch so often already, what with Quidditch season starting, and I certainly don’t relish being cold and wet every lesson.” He’s mostly hands-off during Quidditch training, letting the Captains do their jobs, but he likes being available if they need to discuss plays, or to conduct flying drills. 

“Ah, yes.” Malfoy slants a crafty smirk towards Harry. “I have faith that Slytherin will continue their winning streak.” 

Harry grins. “We’ll see about that. Gryffindor is shaping up to give Slytherin a run for their Galleons.” 

“We’ll see,” Malfoy echoes lightly. A thrum of competitiveness beats between them, just like old days.

Fuck, he is so damn fine, but there’s still something niggling at the back of Harry’s mind, colouring their interactions, wedged between them like a restless third shadow. 

_Why did you leave the Academy?_

Despite his intense curiosity, Harry has learnt his lesson. The last time he asked Malfoy that, they ended up at the Headmistress’ office, and he has no desire to repeat that, thank you very much.

“Is the Halloween feast still as good?” he asks, recalling the giant pumpkins decorating the Great Hall, a flock of bats whizzing around, and the brilliant smorgasbord of food that plunges him into a food coma. Hermione used to be exasperated with him and Ron after feasts, when she’d be going on about revising and they’re zoned out in front of the fireplace in their common room, answering her in monosyllables. 

“Yes. I will see you at the feast tonight, then,” Malfoy replies. He collects his scrolls, and then exits the classroom, leaving behind his usual whiff of lemon. 

Harry sighs in longing; Malfoy’s arse in sweatpants is so much more delectable than in robes.

* * *

Draco folds a damp towel on the edge of the large, pool-like tub and rests the back of his head on it, groaning in bliss. Although he has a perfectly serviceable bathtub in his own en-suite, there’s no beating the prefects’ bathroom, which boasts a ridiculously luxurious tub like this, the staggering variety of bath supplies, and the numerous golden taps surrounding the tub, ready with their differently-coloured bath water. There’s a yellow tinge to the water, imbuing it with the refreshing scent of lemon. Sunlight streams through the stained glass windows, resplendent in their pictures of the mermaids, and the radiant hues of the glass colour the bubbles on the water. 

He could lay sprawled like this forever, eyes closed, body completely relaxed, and mind at ease. As he soaks, he lets the gentle swish of the water carry away all muddled thoughts about lesson plans, marking and work-related bothers. Draco sinks further into the tub, his arms floating in the water as he mulls over the term. 

It’s already November, and term will end soon for Christmas. He’s mostly glad, as he can return to France to see Mother and Pansy, and also take a much-deserved break from the busy humdrum of school, but a part of him is disappointed, because he can’t see Potter every day. 

He can’t stop thinking about Potter, whether in dreams or reality — Potter’s cheerful laugh, that electric smile and the playful twinkle in his eyes. That kiss seven years ago keeps replaying in his mind in increasingly vivid detail. He’s caught Potter sneaking heated looks at him during dinner (followed by Charlie’s mischievous grins); Potter popping up during sleepless nights, as if he knows exactly where Draco is. They don’t talk much then, content in their companionable silence, like that night at the seventh-floor memorial. They’ve struck up a friendship, encouraged by Charlie. The three of them occasionally go for a pint or a meal at Hogsmeade to unwind, but he’s never spent time alone with Potter in public.

Draco sighs with longing, suddenly filled with a desire to see Potter. He could head to the pitch, or even to Potter’s private quarters, ask him out for dinner tonight, as something more than friends—

As sudden as he welcomes the thought, Draco bats it away. He can’t risk this friendship. What if Potter rejects him, like first year? Things would be so awkward, and he doesn’t want Charlie to be affected too. They’re colleagues now, furthermore. 

Draco shifts in the tub, his hand naturally moving to his crotch when he thinks of Potter. Although he can’t see him, he certainly can rub one out as he mentally undresses Potter, until he’s wearing nothing but those tiny swimming pants…

A sharp click, a cold gust of wind gliding across his body, sending goosebumps erupting on his skin—

“What the—“ 

Draco’s eyes open, and he echoes Potter’s squawk. He lets go of his prick. 

“Close the door, you berk! Anyone can see!” he snaps, sinking further into the water and sweeping the foam up to his chin. Potter jolts into action, stumbling into the bathroom and slamming the door behind him. He looks at Draco with wide eyes. 

“Wasn’t it locked?” Draco hisses.

“No, I swear! It opened, like usual. I had no idea—“ Potter splutters. “I’m sorry, I’ll come back later.” He turns and rattles the doorknob. 

It doesn’t give. 

“It’s locked.” Potter jerks the handle again. “From the outside.”

“How is that possible? Was there anyone outside?” 

“No, no one.” Potter whips out his wand and casts spells at the door, but to no avail. He turns to Draco, confused. “I can’t unlock it. I don’t know why, or how, but I guess we’re stuck here for a bit.” 

At his defeated words, a towel and a bathrobe levitate themselves from the rack, bobbing their way towards Potter until they’re floating in front of him. A handful of the taps gush out bath water and soap. A wave of bubbles drifts lazily, enticingly in the air, popping every few seconds. 

Draco lifts his hands from the water to show he isn’t the one doing all this magic. 

_What is this blasted castle doing?_

Potter accepts the proffered items, and then looks at him. “Since you’re here, I guess I should go for a shower,” he says, but an envious glance at the tub tells Draco what he’s really keen on. It’s the height of Quidditch season, and Potter looks absolutely knackered this Friday night. Draco knows first-hand the restoring and rejuvenating wonders the bath can do for aching muscles, sore joints brought on by vigorous exercise and made worse by cold, biting winds and persistent drizzles. 

“It’s big enough for us. Join me, if you don’t mind sharing.” 

“Really? D’you really mean that?” Potter says, perking up. “Oh, that’s brilliant. Thanks.” Without even asking for privacy, he eagerly strips down to his pants (at least it’s not those swimming ones) right where he stands, bounds over to the tub, chucks his clothes in a messy pile at the side and jumps inside. He tilts his head back, resting his elbows on the edge and releasing a sound of pure joy.

Potter straightens up at Draco’s blush. “Sorry, am I making you uncomfortable? During Quidditch training, we kinda just strip down like that in the showers.”

“No, it’s alright,” Draco croaks, closing his legs under the bubbles; his body doesn’t need any more encouragement, he’s already hard. When Potter closes his eyes and tips his head back, fully enjoying the bath, Draco discreetly makes the water a bit colder. 

After a moment, he whispers, hesitant to wake Potter if he’s asleep, “Your tattoos…” He got a closer look, they appear to be dates and words. “What are they?” 

“Oh.” Potter stands up and presents his left hip to Draco. “This is the newer one.” It’s the triangular black Montrose Magpies logo — a magpie perching on the ring of a Quidditch hoop, with the word “Montrose” nestled within the hoop and “Magpies” acting as the stand. On top of the logo is the date when Potter caught the winning Snitch at the World Cup. 

“I got this years ago,” Potter continues, raising his right arm, revealing the words in black elegant, flowing script — _the last enemy that shall be destroyed is death_ — followed by the date of the Battle of Hogwarts. “The words are on my parents’ tombstone,” he says, but offers no further explanation. 

He splashes back into the tub, and then darts a strange look at Draco. “So you’re… er… naked? Underneath the water?” he asks, gesturing with a hand. 

“I… yes.” 

“Oh,” Potter says, gulping.

Draco’s familiar stirrings of Potter-related lust amplify when Potter fiddles with something under the water, pulling off his pants and then lobbing them towards his clothes.

_What the fuck._

Draco’s cock throbs. He aches to cover the distance between them, climb into Potter’s lap and grind into him while snogging the living daylights out of him. Worse still, he has a feeling that Potter absolutely wouldn’t mind. 

_Salazar have mercy on me._

Potter sniffs the air, dips his head into the water, and then pops back up. “Smells like lemons. Oh, this must be why there’s this lemony scent around you. Here I was, thinking that that’s ‘cause you walk around sour-faced most of the time,” he says, grinning to imply a joke. 

_He knows what I smell like?_ Draco doesn’t know what to say to that, so he gives him a watery smile. He thinks of Potter’s Magpies tattoo, and he’s suddenly consumed with the urge to know about his story — the Academy, to pro Quidditch, and finally, to this surreal day of them sitting together, naked, in the prefects’ bathroom in Hogwarts. So, he asks Potter about it. 

Potter gathers some water in his cupped palms and splashes his face, smoothing his hair back. He leans back on the tub. “I left the Academy very soon after you. I was bumming around for a bit, before Oliver — Oliver Wood, he went to school with us, I don’t know if you remember — told me the Magpies was holding out try-outs for Seeker. I met him again at Seamus and Dean’s sports complex, and we ended up going out for a while—“ 

A hot flare of jealousy surges in Draco. 

“— so it’s thanks to him that I heard of the chance to go pro. Went for try-outs and got in, and that was my life for the next five years. Thought I’d take a shot for the World Cup last year, and I surprisingly got in as Seeker, and even more surprisingly, we won.”

Draco still can’t understand how Potter can be so humble, considering all he’s accomplished. “Then why did you leave professional Quidditch? Don’t players usually get the most money and opportunities after winning the World Cup? I’m sure you know how shocked the wizarding community was when you ditched it all to teach.” 

“Yeah, I know, but it just felt…” Potter wets his lips, pausing as he fumbles for the right words. “It felt like I’ve reached my best in the sport, y’know? It wasn’t a challenge anymore, and I was getting bored. I wanted to switch things up. Plus I needed a break — a break from the publicity,” he grimaces, “from the frantic trainings, the hustle of London and the insane travelling for matches… it’s really tiring.

“I’ve always kept in touch with Minerva, ever since I wrote to her telling her I got into the Magpies ‘cause I know that’s her favourite team. She told me about Hooch leaving, and then before I knew it, I was signing the contract and packing my bags for Hogwarts. Felt like the right thing do.” Potter pats the surface of the water with his palms, as if punctuating the end of his story. 

That’s the marked difference between Potter and him — Potter works best going with the flow, while Draco is the complete opposite. 

_Maybe that’s why you need someone like him, someone in your dull, monotonous life to liven things up once in a while._

Draco banishes that thought. “I see.” 

Their eyes meet, and once again, that same unanswered question hangs in the air between them. _What about you, Malfoy? What’s your story?_

Draco expects Potter to ask him about it, but instead, he looks away, busying himself with paddling around in the water. Minutes tick by, and Draco’s hands clench on the seat of the tub, before relaxing. He exhales, swiping away the cobweb of secrets within him with a jittery hand, and lugs out the truth.

“You want to know why I left the Academy,” he murmurs. 

Potter goes very still for a second. “Yeah,” he whispers and moves slowly, as if Draco is a small animal that spooks easily. He returns to his spot and waits.

“The day after we… kissed, Mother owled me. Her health, both mental and physical, were on the decline after the War, especially when Father passed on.” Draco swallows the lump in his throat. “Things took a turn for the worse that night, and when I hurried back to the Manor, I knew we had to leave. Staying in the country, in the Manor, along with all of the abuse hurled at us even though I got accepted into the Academy…” He shakes his head, trying to control his fury and resignation at those horrible memories of people spitting at them in the streets, the vandalism inflicted on the Manor, and of Mother, pale-faced and distraught, shrieking about ghosts of people killed by Death Eaters, along with Malfoy ancestors in the Manor, telling her that she’d tarnished their reputation. 

_“Everywhere I turn, Draco, I see them, I see Lucius, but I can’t leave this house for fear of my safety, please, I beg of you, let’s go away from here, leave it all behind us…”_

Draco grabs the nearest bottle of shampoo and turns it over in his hands, just for something to do. His gaze flickers to Potter, and then back to the bottle, his eyes gazing unseeingly at the components of the shampoo. “I got in touch with some family members in France, and we left. I pulled a few strings — the Malfoy name is still fairly respected in France — to obtain a Defence position in Beauxbatons. The syllabus was not exactly like what I teach here, but similar enough.

“Two years on, I heard about the vacant Defence position in Hogwarts. Mother was doing much better in France, and she had Pansy around too. Pansy joined me a few months after I left Britain.” Draco smiles at the mention of his best friend. “And I missed home. So I wrote to Minerva, expecting her not to give me the time of the day, but she did. I went for the interview, and I got the job,” Draco finishes, exhaling deeply and replacing the shampoo bottle. 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Potter asks, hurt apparent in sad green eyes, and Draco’s heart sinks. He doesn’t want to see Potter troubled, and knowing that he was the one that made him feel like this… “I know we were far from best mates in the Academy, but I thought we were… at least close enough for me to deserve an explanation.” 

_Because I’m a coward. I developed feelings for you. I tried so hard not to, but I was falling for you. I knew I couldn’t have you, and staying as friends would hurt me. So I ran, Harry. I ran away from you, from a happy ending I knew I could never have. I cut off all connection, because what’s the point in hoping?_

Draco waited for his longing to run its course, hoped that his feelings for Potter was as ephemeral as breaths on frosted glass, like memories losing their intensity, paling and fading away with the passage of time. Draco musters up a bland smile and says, “I’m a very private person, as you should know, especially about family matters. Only Pansy, and of course, Robards knew. Everything happened so quickly, I just…” He shrugs. “Things happen.” 

“D’you wanna know why I left the Academy?” Potter says. 

Draco nods warily. 

“Being an Auror was expected of me, so I went along with things, probably because I didn’t bother thinking what else I could be doing. It wasn’t something I particularly enjoyed. But most importantly…” He fixes Draco with a look so intense that his heart stutters. Potter takes one small step towards him, water swishing behind him. “I left because I missed you.” 

Draco’s heart stops for a split second, before thudding in double-quick time. “It’s because Weasley didn’t join the Academy. Your group of friends weren’t there, that’s why you—“

“No!” Potter growls. “It’s you. Don’t you fucking get it, Malfoy?” He draws up to his full height and advances towards Draco, bath water cascading down his chest. Draco flattens himself against the side of the tub. “I was missing something important, not having you to push against, not seeing your face every morning in the pantry, duelling with people that didn’t present half the challenge you did.” He scrubs his face with his palms, sighing. “It’s you. It’s always been you.” These last few words emerge so quietly, as if they were meant for Potter himself. 

_I’m something important to him._

Holding his gaze, Potter moves closer, foam rippling around his hips. Draco sucks in a harsh breath, his body tensing and his eyes wandering. The bubbles pop, soap glistens on Potter’s shoulders and chest. He stares at Potter’s chest hair, and then at the narrow trail of hair down his abdominals, his navel, before widening into a thick nest of black curls, fuck, he can almost see the outline of Potter's swelling prick— 

Draco makes a small, dying sound.

“Draco…” Potter whispers. It’s the way he says his name, like before that kiss in the pub—

There’s a loud click as the door unlocks, and they turn to look, startled. 

Just like that, the spell is broken. 

“Oh,” Draco murmurs. “It’s unlocked.”

Potter clears his throat, and retreats. “Er. Yeah.” 

“I should go,” Draco mutters. His rational mind finally catching up — there ought to be rules about fraternising within the faculty — he wraps his arms around himself and quickly shuffles away from Potter. 

Potter throws him one last lingering look, before turning around to give him some privacy as Draco rinses off, dries himself and pulls on his clothes. He’s close to the door before Potter’s voice stops him in his tracks. 

“Thanks for telling me.” 

Draco nods, and then exits the bathroom, leaving Potter alone in the tub. He feels strangely liberated, as if by spilling all of that out, a weight was lifted off his shoulders.

That night, Draco’s bed is softer and more comfortable, a fire already crackling in the fireplace, the swishing of the lake more hypnotising, lulling him into a peaceful slumber… 

… as if the castle is pleased with him.

* * *

Harry stares at Malfoy's dot on the Marauder's Map; he is currently in the Slytherin dungeons, surrounded by a cluster of students. Sighing, he forces himself to deactivate the Map and place it on his bedside dresser. He takes off his glasses and stretches out in bed, pressing his face into his pillows. 

He's becoming obsessed with Draco Malfoy. 

Again. 

It's like sixth year; the way he's so concerned with Malfoy's daily comings and goings, except it's for vastly different reasons this time. He has used the Map to engineer opportunities to "stumble" upon Malfoy in private, although he honestly didn't plan it when he found Malfoy in the prefects' bathroom. He was looking forward to a long, relaxing soak at the end of an exhausting week, and Malfoy was there, naked and practically waiting for him like a soaped-up treat. 

Harry briefly lifts his hips to adjust himself at that memory. 

Of course, he ruined it, yeah? Advancing on Malfoy like some... some naked sexual predator when things became too heated at the end, effectively scaring him away. 

Harry simply doesn't know how to play things cool.

That tempting image of Malfoy in the tub lingers — the dark blond of his wet hair, pale and soapy shoulders, the delicate hollows of his collarbone, and that pink flush blooming across his cheeks. What if the door remained locked, would they have recreated that wonderful kiss from seven years ago, only naked... 

Harry reaches over to wrench open the lowest compartment of his dresser. He’s returned to the old-fashioned way of getting off — he really misses having access to the internet. He flips through his selection of _Lush_ magazines, fishing one out at random. A pair of fit, scantily clad men wink at him on the cover, and Harry tears through the September issue, in search of a sex scene involving any tall, pale and blond model. He huffs in frustration when every model comes up short, and despite the explicit scenes that would usually get him in the mood, he's only half-hard. 

Nowadays, it’s as if only Malfoy does it for him. Sighing, Harry chucks the mag to the side, makes himself comfortable and lets his mind (and his hand) wander to the glistening possibilities of the prefects' bathroom... 

A sharp rap on his door interrupts his imagination, and Harry quickly gets his prick to behave, before tucking himself away and straightening his clothes. 

Another hard knock. 

"Coming," he calls, patting his hair. He swings open the door, and comes face-to-face with the bloke of his fantasies himself. 

"Good evening, Potter," Malfoy says in a clipped tone. "I need to talk to you about your snake."

Harry blinks. "Er. What?" he says, his gaze automatically dropping to Malfoy's crotch. 

Malfoy goes pink. "Not that kind of snake, you berk!" Agitated, he motions to his left. It's only then that Harry notices a well-camouflaged Pork Chop, who is lying beside him on the floor and looking far too interested in them. Her sharp, dimly glowing red eyes dart avidly between them, as if she is a Magizoologist watching two wild beasts interact. 

"I found her in the dungeons! Care to explain what your fire-breathing Ashwinder is doing with my students? I distinctly recall you saying that you promised Minerva you'd keep your snake to yourself!" Malfoy says, understandably upset.

Outraged, Harry rounds on Pork Chop at once. _"Did you reveal yourself to the students? Did you break the only rule you have to obey, the one thing that I promised Minerva when she granted permission for me to keep you here?" he hisses, glaring at her. "What if something happened to them, how would I answer to her?"_

Her satisfied expression fades, and her eyes spark with anger. _"I'm in full control of my powers, and I don’t like being yelled at without a chance to explain myself. Did you actually think I would hurt anyone?"_ She tips her head towards Malfoy, and flicks her tongue out. _"I was curious. You keep talking about him. Look at him now. I can smell his arousal. He likes it when you speak like this."_

Miffed, Pork Chop holds her head high, slithers into the room and curls up in her basket, sulking. She narrows her eyes at Harry. _"You can thank me later."_

Harry looks at Malfoy. Sure enough, there's a faint flush on his cheeks, his grey eyes are half-lidded, his plump lips parted as he stares at Harry's mouth. Harry drops his gaze — there's a slight bulge in his trousers. 

Harry licks his lips, amused when Malfoy swallows, his Adam's apple bobbing. 

"Er... Malfoy?" he says, waving a hand in front of his face. 

The other man blinks rapidly, recovering his equilibrium. "What did you say?" he asks, indicating Pork Chop.

_That you apparently have a kink for Parseltongue._

"I told her off. I'm really sorry about this, I have no idea why Pork Chop was loitering around your students, but I promise it won't happen again. Please don't tell Minerva about this, I really don't want her kicked out," Harry says. 

"Pork Chop? Why that name?" 

"Because she loves to eat pork chops." Harry gestures for Malfoy to come in, and he does, closing the door behind him. 

"Was anyone hurt?" Harry asks. He sits on the edge of the bed, and Malfoy takes a seat on the chair near his table. 

"No, fortunately. There were a few students far away, clearly uneasy, yet curious, but she was with a group of students that seemed quite interested in her. They were even petting her. They told me it's the first time they’ve seen her, and asked if she was Charlie’s. She did seem quite happy with the attention." Malfoy sighs. "Perhaps I over-reacted. She must be lonely, all alone in the castle. Since it's the first, and hopefully the last time, Minerva will not know about this." He looks at Pork Chop, frowning. "She still appears to be angry at you." 

Although her body is turned towards the wall, her head is tilted, discreetly looking at them. Her beady eyes blink when Harry's gaze meets hers, and she lifts her head, sniffing in an injured air. 

_"I'll forgive you only if you let me watch while you mount him."_

_"No! I told you to stop watching whenever I have sex! Go back to your corner!"_ Harry snaps in disbelief, earning an offended snarl from her. She coils her body up even further, and whips her head around, facing the wall in mute indignation. 

He turns his attention to Malfoy, who looks away at once, as if caught staring. "I'll talk to her later, figure out what's going on. She might be lonely, but she shouldn’t be harassing students." A twinge of guilt rises in Harry — maybe it’s his fault, he has been busy recently. 

Malfoy focuses on something behind him, and grey eyes widen. He’s looking at the porn mag (the two men on the cover are snogging now), and he nods at it, his voice huskier than usual, "Glad to see you're spending your time productively." 

Unapologetic, Harry shrugs. In fact, this might be a good chance to have some fun. “I like sex. Nothing wrong with that. I have needs, cloistered away in the castle like this." He rakes Malfoy from head to toe with a slow gaze. He's taking a big risk with this, but he wants to goad Malfoy on, test how far he can take this little game of cat-and-mouse. "You're the only one who looks good around here."

"Such a compliment, being compared to the rest of the older faculty," Malfoy drawls with a dry smile. A familiar thrum of interest and tension ignites, crackling in the air between them. 

Harry takes a step forward. 

Pork Chop makes a sound of interest, but he ignores her. 

He’s ready with another cheeky question, but he frowns when a thought strikes him. He blurts out inelegantly, "Er, you're gay too, aren't you?"

And just like that, the playful moment pops like a bubble. 

Malfoy blinks owlishly at him, and then shoots him an unimpressed look. "As usual, you're blessed with the subtlety of a _Stupefy_ to the head," he says blandly.

Harry bites his lip, pushing down the justification for his question — simply because they kissed doesn't mean Malfoy is gay or has accepted his sexuality (during the Academy, Malfoy mentioned his expectations to marry and continue the lineage), plus he’d rather confirm things like this. Instead, he sighs. Subtle seduction is hardly his cup of tea. He's a firm believer of diving into things headfirst. 

“Sorry, if I got that wrong,” Harry says. 

Malfoy sniffs, reminding him of Pork Chop. "I do prefer men, but unlike you, I don't have the habit of flaunting my sexuality in the gossip rags." 

A roiling surge of indignation jolts in Harry, and once again, that combative heat throbs under his skin, a strangely thrilling sensation that only Malfoy can provide. "I didn't ask for photographers and reporters popping up everywhere while I went about my business!" 

"And your business being a new bloke every month or so, is it?" Malfoy continues, his eyes flashing in annoyance and restrained emotion trembling in his words. "I can't believe you dated Dennis Creevey, he was such a worshipper. I didn't know your ego needed that much stroking!" 

Harry listens, amazed, as Malfoy flies into a jealous snit, picking apart a few of his exes — flings or proper relationships — that the media probably mentioned. He follows up each name with a reason as to why they never worked out or outright insults (some of which were quite witty, in fact, he said Oliver Rivers, a Ravenclaw they knew at the Academy, had the manners of a Flobberworm and the face of a Grindylow when he was angry, which honestly wasn't that far off). 

"And Oliver Wood!" Malfoy hisses, his tirade winding down. "I used to be such a fan of Puddlemere!" 

"Hang on. You switched Quidditch loyalties because of who I was going out with?" Harry says. A slow, impish smirk tugs his lips up. "You're so jealous! Didn't know you were so invested in me.”

"There's no need to look so pleased with yourself!" Malfoy snarls, flustered, then quickly schools his features into an expression of cool detachment. "Those were poor life choices, after all. I thought I'd do you the favour of enlightening you, seeing as we are colleagues." 

"C'mon, don't make it out like I slept with half of London." Harry sighs. "Yeah, maybe I've got a reputation for fooling around. Half of the photos papped of me were in the clubs and parties, but it's part of pro Quidditch. I did settle down with a handful of those blokes. The _Prophet_ would hardly cover those type of relationships, they'd be more interested in the salacious details of my one-night stands."

Malfoy makes an unconvinced sound. 

Harry frowns, resentment and irritation cutting through his amusement at Malfoy's jealousy. "Why do I have to justify my actions to you, anyway? You seem rather suppressed yourself. D'you need a mag for your own needs?" he asks, grabbing the mag and dangling it in front of Malfoy. 

Malfoy glances at it, and his lip curls with disdain. He glares at Harry, who meets it head-on, and then leans in to whisper in Harry's ear, his voice as light as silk, "No, thank you. I prefer the October 2002 issue myself." With a scowl, he withdraws, bids Harry a brusque goodnight, wrenches the door open and stomps off. 

Harry hurries after him, eyeing his silly dramatic robes swirling behind him and that stupid shapely arse that makes him want to do all sorts of obscene things to it. 

_Come back and let me grab your bum, you gorgeous, jealous bastard_. Annoyed at himself, and at how the night turned out, Harry retreats into his room, slamming the door. He spots the mag, and then quickly dives into his stack of mags, searching for the issue that Malfoy mentioned. 

He doesn't have it. _Damn, is it back in London?_ He doesn't have a subscription, so it's possible that he might not even have bought it in the first place. He makes a mental note to hunt for that particular issue during Christmas hols. 

"So much sexual tension," Pork Chop remarks, uncurling. She moves towards Harry, but freezes, as if she just remembered their argument. Sullenly, she swirls her way back to her basket and turns to face the wall.

"Porks." Harry sighs. "C'mon, Porks. Don't be like this. You know I hate it when we fight." He sits beside her and runs a hand down the top of her head, before stroking the base of her belly — she loves it when he pets her like this. Her tongue flicks out at the reconciliatory gesture, and her eyes flutter closed. After a while of petting, she butts her head against his arm affectionately (albeit a bit harder than usual). He heaves her up in his arms, and then carries her to the bed, where they lay in repose for a moment. 

"Are you lonely? Is that why you went to the Slytherins? Maybe we should visit Charlie more often. Or d'you miss London? We'll be home next month for hols, and I promise we'll visit Ron and Hermione first thing when we get back." Harry worries his lower lip. "Maybe I could talk to Minerva, see if you can join me in my classes so you're not alone when I'm teaching. I'm sure they won't mind if you stay at the stands during Quidditch practice."

Pork Chop lifts her head up from his chest briefly, before plonking back down in a show of exasperation. "You've got it wrong, you great big knob." 

Harry grins at the phrase he taught her — it's now one of her favourite insults.

"I wanted to see you together," she explains. "I'm curious about your mate, like what I said earlier. You keep talking to me about him, confessing your feelings every so often. I wanted to see it for myself, so I could get a better picture. But I never saw you alone together; I'm out hunting when you're with him at night.

"So, I crafted an opportunity by entering his House." She bats her eyes at him haughtily. "I'm a very charismatic and loveable snake, as you should very well know, and I was on my best behaviour, so there was no risk to the students at all. He appeared, no doubt alerted of my presence because of some plebeians without the fine appreciation for graceful and elegant snakes like I." The corners of her mouth turn up into a pleased smile. "And he behaved exactly like how I expected."

Harry plumps up his pillows and lies down. "So what's your verdict?" 

"So much tension," she repeats. "So much mutual arousal, hidden beneath the sniping and tempers. I cannot understand English, but one might say that makes observing other things better — your body language, the tone of your voices, and the attraction and passion. So fiery interactions — as hot as the molten fire in my body — well, I used to be more powerful before _they_ messed me up." Her eyes dim in sadness, and Harry makes a soothing noise, refusing to let her wallow in the misery of her past life, before she entered the care of Charlie, and subsequently, Harry.

"I daresay he wants you as much as you want him. And he's got such a kink for our language. Did you see?" she asks, and Harry nods. 

He sits up, grabs the Map and activates it. Pork Chop climbs up his body, peering over his shoulder. Her tail rises to smooth a wrinkle on the parchment. "Still stalking him, I see." 

"What? No! It’s er... focused following," Harry insists. He points to Malfoy's dot, and Pork Chop's tail follows his finger. "He's back in the dungeons, in his room." 

"Would you like me to sneak into his room, see what he's doing, what he's wearing when he's alone?" Pork Chop offers with a cunning smile. "Perhaps he's touching himself right now, like how you do so often, and I could tell you how big _his_ snake is." She pauses, lifting her tail and tapping its tip onto her head as if she's thinking. "Do you think he sounds like a dying Hippogriff, like you, when you're touching your _other_ pet snake?" 

"I certainly do not sound like a dying Hippogriff," Harry hisses back, scandalised. "And I told you to stop watching me!"

"Sure," she says, brushing away his usual concerns at her voyeuristic tendencies. "It would do the both of you well to make him your mate," she declares, and then slithers back to her basket, curling up for her usual nap before her hunting session. 

They exchange goodnights, and Harry returns to gazing longingly at Malfoy's dot as he moves about in his room, Pork Chop's words of support replaying in his head. 

_I should chase him and make my intentions clear. I'm tired of playing games._

* * *

"Hurry, Harry!" Pork Chop yells in excitement as she quickens her pace, slithering onwards to Charlie's hut. The cabin is at the edge of the Forbidden Forest, which is no surprise — Charlie is so comfortable with the Forest, he probably takes night-time strolls there for leisure. They visit him often, but that doesn’t curb Pork Chop's enthusiasm. Harry breaks into a jog to catch up, but she's already thumping on his door with her tail. A muffled shout comes from the inside, and she raises her head up high, tongue flicking in anticipation and eyes glowing bright red with affection. 

The door swings open, and she lunges towards Charlie, hissing his name happily. 

"Hi there, Porks," Charlie greets, laughing when she nuzzles her head on his knee. "Hey, Harry." 

Charlie has retained the no frills décor and furnishings of the cabin, although there are differences: the bed is much smaller now, and no longer complete with Hagrid’s patchwork quilt, but instead, Molly’s handmade quilt. There are no more hams and pheasants dangling from the ceiling, now replaced by dragon posters tacked on the wall. There are also a lot more books and teaching things around. Harry blinks at the unusually messy surroundings. There are clothes, books and stacks of parchment heaped in untidy piles everywhere. Charlie's bags are open, with half of them full — he's clearly packing for Christmas hols. 

A burst of heat emanates from the hearth, and Harry turns. With a fiery breath, Pork Chop has stoked the waning fire, the crackling and warmth lending a toasty and cosy atmosphere to the hut. Charlie is at the sink, washing out two mugs. Harry flicks his wand, and a box of their usual Earl Grey floats from the rack to the kettle. 

_"Why don't you do things like that for me?"_ Harry asks Pork Chop, who is heating up the kettle. 

_"Because you're not Charlie,"_ she replies, a soft smile taking away the sting of her words. 

When they're seated at the table with steaming mugs of tea, Pork Chop curled up on her cushion beside them, Harry motions to the unpacked bags. "Leaving for the Burrow so soon?" Although tomorrow is the last official day of term, Charlie usually packs his things last minute (like Harry), so this means he's leaving earlier. "Everyone's fine, yeah? You're not rushing back 'cause someone's sick or anything like that?" 

"Someone's sick, alright, but it's not anyone back home." Charlie summons a letter with a Romanian stamp. "I'm leaving straight for the sanctuary tonight. Gotta pack up, instruct the house elves to feed my animals for hols, and then Portkey out. Lucky I've no classes tomorrow."

Harry blinks, alarmed. He quickly swallows a scalding mouthful of tea. "Are we in your way, then?" 

"No, I’m waiting for the Ministry-sanctioned Portkey to be owled over, since the Portkey would send me directly to the sanctuary, and not to London, nor the wizarding Romania Ministry. Should take about another thirty minutes or so." Charlie puts down the letter and tightens his lips in worry, his normally cheerful blue eyes midnight with sadness. 

Pork Chop lifts her head up, puzzled. _"What's wrong?"_ she asks, concerned. 

_"I don't know. We’re still talking about it, but he's leaving tonight. Some problem at the sanctuary."_

In response, she slithers towards Charlie and rests her head on his wrist in a show of comfort. Having been under his care at the sanctuary, she knows how much he feels for the dragons and other smaller reptiles there. He gives her a small smile as he begins to pet her. 

"Wish I could talk to dragons like how you talk to snakes," he says enviously, and then backpedals. "Er, without the whole Voldemort Parselmouth thing, of course." 

Harry reassures him that he didn't take offence. Charlie tugs at his earring on his left earlobe — it's a small dragon tooth, carved with the name of the dragon. The keepers at the sanctuary have a tradition: whenever a dragon passes away — whether peacefully due to old age or otherwise, such as being grievously injured in the dragon trafficking trade — they would extract its teeth and keep them as a memento, before disposing of its body respectfully. Charlie would craft the tooth into an earring.

"Everest isn't doing too well, and this time, they reckon he's really gonna go for good. I got a letter a few days back, told me I better hurry back to say my..." Charlie swallows thickly and takes a fortifying gulp of tea. "To say my final goodbye." 

"I'm sorry," Harry whispers. Everest, along with Norberta (Hagrid's dragon that Harry and his friends shipped over to Romania in their second year), are the last two Norwegian Ridgebacks in the sanctuary, and Everest's poor health put a dent in their plans for captive breeding in order to save the numbers of Ridgebacks in the wild. 

"If he dies because of old age, I would've accepted it!" Charlie rages. "But they poached him right from under our noses, hurt him and drugged him just to make potions ingredients off of him illegally. We got him back, healed him, but he's still going to—" He breaks off, looking away. "I don't want another earring, Harry," he whispers, broken. 

A lack of funding, aging equipment (such as dragon trackers and alarm systems), too little staff and the increased sophistication of poachers' tools spelled bad news for the sanctuary. As Charlie is a teacher at Hogwarts to be nearer to his family and to mould the next generation of conservationists and magizoologists, he could not stay on at the sanctuary as a paid worker, so he remains as a volunteer during holidays.

Pork Chop herself was a victim of the wildlife trade that eventually found refuge in the sanctuary; Ashwinder eggs are a prized potions ingredient. Traffickers caged her, pumped her full of drugs and hormones, cast spells on her to force her to continue laying eggs. Because of their abuse, she is now sterile and can survive past the typical hour-long lifespan of Ashwinders.

After Harry left the Academy, he visited Charlie at Romania, just to see if the sanctuary was a possible career option. He met Pork Chop there. In the end, he didn't leave with a job, but a pet snake. She was furious and distrustful of humans after her terrifying encounter, but under Charlie and Harry's patient and tender care, she healed, morphing into this snarky, pork chop-loving, smart-arse snake that they've come to know and love.

Speechless, Harry simply pats Charlie's hand and squeezes. He squeezes back, and Pork Chop engulfs a sniffling Charlie into a fierce hug. After a quiet moment, Harry grabs their empty mugs and heads to the sink. There’s an extra mug. "Someone was here?" 

"Yeah. Draco came to say goodbye before he left for France." 

"Oh." 

Harry ran into Malfoy on the way to Charlie's. Malfoy was carrying his bags. 

_"You're leaving? So soon?"_

_"Yes. Mother tends to be rather maudlin around December, because of Christmas and... well, Father passed away in the month of December, so I usually leave as early as possible for Christmas."_

_"Oh. Please send her my regards, then. Happy Christmas, and see you next term."_

_"Same to you. Goodbye, Potter."_

Harry is disappointed, knowing that Malfoy is no longer near him, as if he's missing something. He washes the mugs and places them on the rack to dry. He turns around, his back to the sink and his palms resting on the edge. He doesn't know if it's a good time to talk about this, but Harry really needs some advice, and who better to help him than Charlie, Malfoy's closest friend in Hogwarts? 

"Er. I might chase him after all," he says. Charlie shouldn't be surprised at this announcement — he's made fun of Harry for mooning over Malfoy throughout term. 

"Are you really going to?" Charlie grins, although he’s still tugging on his dragon earring. "It's about bloody time, then." 

"D’you reckon it’s a bad idea? Has he said anything about me? Does he still hate me?" Harry plops back on his seat opposite Charlie, frowning. "He can't hate me, can he? We've been getting on rather well." Still, Malfoy is bloody inscrutable at times, and Harry can't figure him out, even though he knows his mannerisms and some aspects of his personality as well as the back of his hand. 

Charlie laughs in astonishment. "No, he certainly doesn’t hate you. He's more relaxed this term, not snapping at his students as much, and he's even smiling more than usual. Heard the students talking about him, asking what's happened over summer hols for this change." He raises an eyebrow. "Won't be surprised if it's because of you." 

"Yeah?" Harry says, hopeful. "D'you think he'll make a move on me?" 

"Doubt so. He's cautious, much too cautious if you ask me, and together with his pride..." Charlie sighs, smiling fondly with a faraway expression in his eyes, as if recalling a memory. "He's quite vulnerable, actually." 

Harry is surprised to hear him describe Malfoy as vulnerable. 

The older man fixes Harry with a stern look. "He's my friend, too. I won't have you hurt him." Harry doesn't have time to splutter in protest before Charlie continues, "I would advise you to go home and have a proper think about it during the holidays. Maybe you're feeling like this because you're cooped up here and seeing him every day, as if life is constrained to within these four walls. You might think better with a clearer head back in London. You know how impulsive you can get at times." 

Yeah, Charlie does make sense, like he always does. This is something important that can't be rushed; Harry can't go haring off after Malfoy until he's truly sure that he wants him. He sighs. Would be nice to know if the attraction is mutual, though. 

"Any rule about going out with fellow teachers?" he asks. 

Charlie shrugs. "I don’t know, I don't think Minerva has encountered anything like this before."

Harry leans back, drumming his fingers on his arm and his thigh jittering under the table. He's full of pent-up energy, wondering what to do about his feelings for Malfoy. He forces himself to calm down and take a deep breath. 

Fine. He'll figure out what he really wants during hols, although he already suspects he's made up his mind — he wants Malfoy, both in his bed and in his life. He’s fallen for him — attracted to his patient smile and words when he teaches, his resilience and perseverance, and their quiet, thought-provoking midnight conversations. 

_How can I play my cards right, how am I going to chase Malfoy to make him mine?_

* * *


	2. TERM TWO

The _Lush_ October 2002 issue mentions Harry — not in any dodgy photos, sex scenes or tell-alls from his exes, thank Merlin. 

Harry flips through the mag again, skipping the porn and going straight to the short write-up about his coming out years ago. He never officially came out to any publication, but simply stopped hiding when he went out on dates or left flats at night, triggering a media frenzy, complete with scandalous headlines. He commented on no photographs or articles, choosing to let the public draw their own conclusions. To celebrate his coming out, the mag contained a ten-page spread of Harry lookalikes in various stages of undress. Some are posing seductively, while others are in sex scenes — his gaze lingers on a lookalike on his knees giving head to a tall, blond man.

Harry searched his flat during hols, but he didn’t have that specific issue. The only other person that collects the mag more than him is Oliver, so he sent him an owl. Even though they’re no longer together, things could never be awkward — they’ve always been mates, having shared the same career, and a love of Quidditch. So, they met for a drink, and Oliver brought along that issue. Harry remembers stumbling across it in an adult bookstore while he and Oliver were still together and having a laugh over it. He dismissed it as a bit of good, strange fun and didn’t think much about it, although it appears that Oliver must’ve bought it for himself. 

And this is the issue that Malfoy mentioned last term, one that he probably wanked over. The thought of Malfoy touching himself to Harry lookalikes, Merlin, that’s fucking hot— 

Was that a come-on? Or was Malfoy taking the piss, teasing him about his fame and popularity that _Lush_ reserved ten pages in his honour? Sighing, Harry tosses the mag aside and stretches on his bed. It’s the day before second term officially reopens, and the teachers are returning from their holidays. 

Pork Chop swirls around in her basket to face him, her head peeking out from her coils. “Having second thoughts about chasing your mate?”

“No,” Harry says. He looks out of his window and shivers at the frigid, chilly January weather — Quidditch trainings will be accompanied by biting winds and stinging cold. He glances at his watch. “No, I’m not. I’m going to talk to Minerva about it, yeah?” He hops off his bed, pulls on his trainers and heads for the door. He glances at his half-unpacked things, and quickly dismisses it. Eh, he’ll sort that out later. Plus, if he takes things out whenever he needs them as term progresses, that counts as unpacking too, yeah?

“See ya, Porks,” he says.

Harry goes to the Headmaster’s Tower, relishing the peace before the students arrive. He provides the password to the gargoyle and mounts the steps to Minerva’s office. At the door, he raises his hand to knock, but she calls to him to enter. He finds her seated behind her desk, frowning at a sheet of parchment while Dumbledore looks at it from his portrait behind her. They appear to be discussing something intently. He glances at Snape’s portrait, which is empty (good, as he has no idea how Snape would react to this particular conversation). 

“Sorry, I could come back later, if it’s not a good time.” 

The professors look up; Dumbledore beams at him, while Minerva puts the parchment down. “Come in, Harry. You did request to meet at this hour.” She waves her wand; the chair opposite her slides backwards in invitation. A second teacup levitates from its resting place, joining her own. 

While his tea is being prepared, the three of them launch into a light-hearted conversation about their Christmas hols and Quidditch, namely the Magpies’ performance for the season now that Harry is no longer their Seeker. He smiles at the swell of affection and pride in Minerva’s voice when they reminisce about his first year, when she caught him flying without permission during his first lesson. 

How things have changed. 

“Right,” Harry says eventually, wiping his palms on the thighs of his jeans. There’s really no subtle way to go about this. “I’d like to… er… pursue Malfoy.”

Minerva’s teacup pauses halfway to her lips, while Dumbledore grins at him, looking positively gleeful, for some strange reason. She sips on her tea, and Harry blinks at her when her lips twitch into a brief smile, before it vanishes as quickly as it appeared. She replaces her cup on the saucer and says carefully, “When you mean _pursue_ , you don’t mean a chase around the pitch, do you?” 

“No. I meant to pursue romantically. Like what a bloke does when he fancies a bird, except it’s different for us because Malfoy’s definitely not a bird and I’m gay, I mean, we’re both gay, if only one of us was gay it’d be really _weird_ , wouldn’t it?” Harry manages a high-pitched laugh, and Minerva simply looks at him as he rambles on. “I’ve become rather fond of him, in a more than friends and colleagues way, so I’d like to know if there’s a policy about faculty members dating each other. So, er, just thought I should ask you, before I do anything about it.” 

He shuts himself up by gulping down some hot tea.

“And if I were to say there is a rule preventing teachers from getting involved? Would you give up?” 

“No. But I’d respect that and wait for summer hols to do something, if possible.” 

At his answer, Minerva leans back on her chair, rests her forearms on the table and links her fingers together, studying him over her glasses. Feeling rather silly, Harry looks at everything in the room except for her or Dumbledore, before meeting her owlish gaze.

She breaks into a small, pleased smile. 

“Have a biscuit.” 

He stares, dumbstruck, as the lid on the nearby biscuit tin pries itself open, and a handful of jammie dodgers float out, settling on their saucers. He expected many outcomes — a disapproving lecture, outright rejection, wariness or grudging acceptance, but this… 

And Dumbledore looks far too interested for a portrait. 

“Thank you for your honesty,” Minerva says. “For years, ever since you were eleven, I’ve seen the both of you antagonise each other and bring out the other’s worst side, but yet, it’s clear how you enjoy pulling each other’s pigtails, as the saying goes, going out of your way to vie for each other’s attention.” A corner of her lips quirk up in amusement. “The Gryffindor and Slytherin tables are at opposite ends of the Great Hall, and yet you two made the effort to glare or shout at each other across the Hall. If that is not attraction, I do not know what is.”

She takes a bite of biscuit, and Harry follows suit, speechless. She wipes the crumbs away, and continues mildly, “Then you joined us as a teacher, and even though things started off badly again, it was a pleasure seeing how you two gradually put your old enmity aside and grew closer, attending each other’s classes and extra-curricular activities, learning from each other, even. So, I cannot say I am surprised at your desire to take things further.” 

She stops, and stares at Harry expectantly.

“Okay,” he says, dragging the word out in uncertainty. “So I can chase him?” 

She nods. “Yes, you may. As long as the standards of your teaching, along with his, is not disrupted, nor is the students’ learning and classes,” she cautions. “Oh, and I would imagine that given your complex history, along with his pride, that pursuing Draco might be a challenge. It would be prudent to remember this piece of advice, as the young ones say nowadays…” She trails off, a surprisingly mischievous smirk on her lips. 

_“Go hard or go home.”_

Harry chokes on his tea, and Minerva waits for him to recover. “Don’t worry, I’ll definitely… er… go hard,” he says rather weakly, feeling incredibly awkward. He finishes his biscuit and tea, cleans up the crumbs, and bids goodbye to Minerva and Dumbledore. When he’s at the door, Minerva’s voice stops him.

“Oh, Harry? You asked if there’s anything you should know. Do you really mean it when you say anything?” 

“Yeah. Really,” he says, nodding seriously. He ought to know if there are precautions or things he shouldn’t do when chasing a fellow teacher. 

“Draco’s favourite flowers are roses, but not the bright red ones. He prefers subtle colours — lavender, silver, light pinks and blues, for example.” She raises her eyebrows meaningfully at him. “The florist at Hogsmeade does wonderful bouquets.” 

“He visits the seventh floor war memorial when he cannot sleep, but I’m certain you already know that,” Dumbledore pipes up, a familiar twinkle in his eye. “The castle is large, yes, but I suspect you’d find it small enough to… run into him more frequently this term.”

Harry doesn’t know what’s more surreal — consulting his former professors about his love life, or said professors offering love advice. 

“Thanks. I’ll… er… remember that.” He gives them a weak wave and hurries out, but before the heavy stone door shuts behind him, he hears Minerva’s voice. 

“I do not want to hear you say _I told you so_ , Albus.” 

Dumbledore laughs. “We’ll see what the others—“ 

Harry stares at the closed door, alarmed. _Others? What others?_

Shaking his head, he heads back to his quarters, and well, if he’s going out of his way to pass by the dungeons, it’s for extra exercise—

“Malfoy!” he calls, his heart leaping. Merlin, it’s been barely a month since he last saw him, but it’s ridiculous how much he missed Malfoy — his soft grey eyes when he looks at Harry when he thinks he doesn’t notice, the dimples on his cheeks when he smiles widely… 

… which is very different from Malfoy’s current disposition. 

Malfoy goes very still, before spinning on his heel, his features schooled into a mask of aloof detachment. His brows draw together in a quick frown, and he greets Harry coolly. Harry’s smile fades, and he suddenly feels very wrong-footed. He moves closer to Malfoy. “How were your holidays?” he asks, plodding on, despite Malfoy’s crossed arms and stony stare. 

“It was good,” comes the brisk reply. “How was yours? How’s Wood doing, by the way?” Malfoy bites out, and lifts his hand to study his fingernails casually, as if Harry’s answer means nothing. 

“What?” Harry starts at the sudden mention of Oliver. He blinks, his confusion vanishing as he gets it. The gossip column of the _Prophet_ published a photo of Oliver and him at the pub when they met up for drinks and for the mag. Unfortunately, it was a photo with connotations — Oliver’s hand was on Harry’s thigh and climbing upwards, his slow smile and the sparkle of intent in his eyes leaving zero doubt about his intentions. 

“We didn’t—“ Harry splutters. “Nothing happened, alright? We had a drink, and I went home. Alone.”

“But you were tempted, weren’t you?” 

“I—“ Harry clamps his mouth shut, because the truth is, yes. It was so easy to match Oliver’s sly smile and agree to a night of familiar and uncomplicated sex. Despite their break-up, they still shagged occasionally, especially if Magpies and Pudd U had a match, to work off the excess energy. Plus, it has been a long time since Harry got some — last August, before he joined Hogwarts and met Malfoy again. 

“My apologies, Potter. I have no right to concern myself with your dalliances. Please, ignore me. I must be tired from the long-distance travel,” Malfoy says, releasing a defeated sigh and stepping back. A quick shrug of his lips breaks the tension on his face, wiping away the jealousy. “Oh, I managed to catch Charlie on his way in earlier.” He sighs, concern colouring his tone. “I believe he told you about Everest, the dragon, last term?” 

“Yeah,” Harry says. He spent Christmas like usual — meeting with his Magpies mates, the old gang from Hogwarts, and of course, the customary Christmas dinner at the Burrow. Everyone was there, except Charlie. Something bad must’ve happened at the sanctuary for him to miss dinner. 

“He looks like he needs a friend and pub night tonight. I’ll ask him out for drinks at the Three Broomsticks after dinner. Would you like to come along?”

“Yeah, definitely.” 

“See you then,” Malfoy says, nodding and walking away, leaving Harry gazing at his arse (yet again). 

It’s bloody ironic that Malfoy got mad over Oliver, because Harry made up his mind then to go after Malfoy. That night, Harry rejected Oliver, and the older man merely removed his hand, took a long swig of his beer and asked, _“Someone new, eh?”_

To which Harry smiled shyly, thinking of soft blond hair, stormy grey eyes and warm pale skin. _“Yeah, dunno if he wants me too, though.”_

Together with the fact that Harry couldn’t stop thinking about Malfoy over the holidays. He wrote letter after letter, and spent an equal amount of time throwing them away, dismissing them as too cheesy, desperate or lame — or even worse, all three. He was jealous too, thinking about Frenchmen romancing Malfoy in French, courting him with candlelit dinners, moonlight strolls and chocolate-dipped strawberries. 

He took Charlie’s advice to spend some time and space away from Malfoy and the castle, and this only shows that yes, he really fancies Malfoy. Like a man on a mission, Harry returns to his room, his jaw tightening in determination and his steps sure and brisk.

Like Minerva said…

_Go hard or go home._

* * *

Draco didn’t expect to feel so much when he glared at the photograph of Potter and Wood splashed in the gossip pages, complete with the headline screaming out at him — _SPOTTED: POTTER AND WOOD REKINDLING TORRID ROMANCE?_ He didn’t expect to tear the page in half and then launch into a sulk during a pleasant Sunday breakfast with Mother and Pansy. 

_“Knew you’d get jealous again when you told me Potter’s back at Hogwarts,”_ Pansy remarked in a matter-of-fact tone, while Mother merely patted Draco’s hand and gave him a gentle, encouraging smile. 

Encouraging him to do what, he has no bloody idea. 

It was such a shame, because the days preceding the photograph found Draco hunched over his desk, writing letters to Potter asking him about his holidays, fretting if the tone was breezy or casual enough. He didn’t want to sound too eager, as if he was thinking about Potter almost every day. The night before the photograph appeared, Draco crafted the perfect letter, but left it to be mailed the next day. It was lucky he waited, as he eventually tore it up into shreds, muttering darkly about Potter’s _wonderful, Wood-filled_ holiday. He kept thinking of them in bed, before the images morphed into _him_ shagging Potter, which naturally culminated in an angry, jealous wank. 

It’s none of his business what Potter gets up to with his old flames; Draco tried to rein in his annoyance and affection for Potter, and force his rational, logical mind back to centre stage. He thought something hopeful was developing between them last term, but it clearly meant nothing to Potter, just some light flirtation sprinkled during term to keep things fun and interesting as he’s cloistered away in this fortress of a castle, a world’s difference from the bustling clubs and pubs that he frequents so often in the city.

Look at what happens when Potter goes back to London. 

It doesn’t matter if Potter slept with Wood or not, because there’ll always be some little worshipper eager enough for a quick, meaningless shag with him. 

Draco is not another challenge, another notch on his bedpost. 

So, he attempts to keep his own affections at bay, which is particularly difficult when Potter’s looking at him like this, his soft lips glistening with Firewhisky and curved into a soppy grin as he gazes at Draco with so much longing that Draco has to look away. 

“Why’re you starin’ at him like that?” Charlie pipes up, squinting at Draco with glassy, unfocused eyes. “He’s still pointy. Like this.” He gets up, wobbling a bit, reaches across the table…

… and pokes Draco in the chin.

_What the actual fuck._

“You see? So pointy,” Charlie declares solemnly, and then plonks himself back on his seat. 

Potter stares at Draco for a long moment, and then bursts into a shriek of laughter. “Can’t believe you did that!” he exclaims, taking another swig and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. 

“Oh, don’t pretend, you tosser. You wanna poke him too,” Charlie slurs back. “In a different way. With your—“ He’s cut off when Potter lunges towards him and covers his mouth with a hand. Potter glances furtively at Draco and shushes Charlie, muttering, “Shh, it’s a surprise, not supposed to know.” 

Charlie grunts into Potter’s palm and pushes him away. “Then don’t talk about it, he’s there—“ 

“You don’t talk about it!” Potter says, punching Charlie lightly on the upper arm. Charlie retaliates by shoving Potter backwards, almost toppling him out of their booth. Potter growls and pushes Charlie back, glaring.

“Why’d ya do that for? D’you want Malfoy too? You wanna fight for him? He’s mine, y’know, you can’t have him,” Potter snarls. 

“Alright, that’s it,” Draco snaps, before there’s any risk of a full-out pub brawl. “You’re too drunk to conduct yourselves in the manner befitting of Hogwarts professors. Let’s go, tomorrow’s the first day of school.” 

They stare at Draco, as if there’s two of him (he’s not surprised if they’re so inebriated that they indeed see double).

“Sorry, Your Pointiness. Are we too rowdy for you?” Potter says, triggering a guffaw from Charlie. 

“Your Pointiness! That’s a good one!” Charlie croons.

They look at each other gleefully, before collapsing into a fit of raucous giggles. 

There’s a low hiss beside him, and Draco turns, receiving an almost apologetic expression from the Ashwinder. He releases a long-suffering sigh.

The four of them — a camouflaged Pork Chop is curled up beside Draco — are at their usual corner in the Three Broomsticks. Upon spotting Charlie today, he noticed the new dragon earring with a new name. 

_Everest._

“Oh, Charlie. I’m so sorry,” Draco whispered, and promptly gave him his usual dragon biscuits, hoping to cheer him up, but only received a small, teary smile. Draco brewed him a strong cup of his favourite tea. There’s another new shiny burn on his left forearm, which piqued Draco’s curiosity. _Everest couldn’t move, let alone breathe fire, so what dragon gave him that burn?_

Charlie agreed to pub night to drown his sorrows, and then proceeded to get thoroughly sloshed, which led to him prodding Draco unceremoniously in the face and Potter shaking with laughter.

Merlin, these bloody Gryffindors. 

“Hey, no sayin’ that about Draco,” Charlie says, and then hiccups. He drains his tumbler, dodging Draco when he tries to grab it from him. “He’s pointy, but a jolly good mate. Good listener, funny, always with tea, and I didn’t think we’d get along good, but we do.” 

A burst of warmth spreads in Draco, bolstered when Potter cheers and coaxes Charlie into a drunken rendition of _For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow._

“And a fantastic arse! The best I’ve ever seen,” Potter declares joyfully, before his head lolls to the side and his forehead thumps onto the table with a loud thud. 

“Fuckin’ lightweight!” Charlie yells, before crashing in an identical manner, his body going limp.

Draco sighs at the two unconscious blokes, and shares a commiserating look with Pork Chop, who has conducted herself with more decorum and dignity. He pays for them, including a generous tip, and then nods at the barkeep, apologising for their outburst. Draco casts a modified _Renervate_ for drunkards. It’s potent enough (but not too strong, if not they’ll have monstrous hangovers) to revive them to hobble out into the bracing night air, filled with harsh winds and slushy ground. He envelops them in a strong warming charm. 

Pork Chop lifts her upper half as high as possible, and slithers to Charlie’s side, leaving Draco to handle Potter. He’s lucky that Charlie’s not as far gone as Potter — when Charlie minces off the path, a hard nudge and a guiding coil of Pork Chop’s tail is enough to steer him proper. They manage a short distance before Potter stops and sways alarmingly on the spot, before collapsing into Draco’s arms. He melts into one of those stupid, adorable grins, which does funny things to Draco’s equally stupid heart. 

“Hi, you’re lookin’ real good,” Potter slurs, sighing happily and clinging to Draco like a limpet. He sniffs. “No lemons now ‘cause just came back. No big bath.” He brightens. “If we get naked at the big bath again, will I smell like lemons too? Can we get naked? Can we, huh, can we?” 

“Shut up, you big brute. Merlin, you’re heavy,” Draco grunts as he lugs Potter, along with sticking an arm out occasionally to steady Charlie, back to the castle. 

“To the big bath?” Potter says, and then lurches over, shooting Charlie a weak glare. “Don’t want him to come. Want you only, nice, naked and soapy. Want you so much.” He gives Draco a smitten sigh, and goes back to gazing longingly at him. Moonlight glimmers on his glasses and his silver stud earrings, and Draco is so tempted to pull him even closer, surrendering to the warmth of Potter’s body, but he knows he'll regret it in the morning.

_Stop saying things like that, please. I can’t fall for you again when it’s just sex to you._

They painstakingly stumble to Charlie’s cabin. Draco tucks him into bed, with Charlie choking out a surprisingly sober _thank you, Draco, for everything_ before falling asleep. Next, Draco summons a hangover potion, places it on his bedside, and pockets two for Potter, just in case he didn’t pack any. They leave, and Draco and Pork Chop flank Potter, shepherding him to his quarters. The snake slithers in through a flap cut into the door and unlocks it from the inside. 

Draco goes to the bed and flings the crumpled duvet away. He pries Potter off him and tosses him on his bed. Potter's strength and agility, even when drunk, are a surprise when he pulls Draco on top of him, sighing into his neck and grasping him around the waist. "Stay. C'mon. It'll be fun. Treat you right all night long,” Potter mumbles.

Draco closes his eyes, summoning his self-control, which rapidly deserts him when Potter claws at the hem of his shirt, tugging them from his trousers— 

"I like challenges," Potter mutters into Draco's skin, his breath hot and smelling of alcohol. “You're such a challenge. Wanna win you. Make you mine." 

Those words are like a bucket of ice water, dousing Draco’s fiery lust. He snarls and shoves Potter’s grabby hands away. Draco quickly rights himself, smoothing his hair and straightening his clothes. “Will you move on to your next challenge when you're finished with me then?” he snaps, frustrated.

Pork Chop emerges from the bathroom, a small towel clamped in her jaws. She pauses, and tilts her head at him, as if curious. Draco looks away and retrieves the hangover potions from his pocket, putting them on the table. Potter shivers and fumbles for the duvet. There's a flare in the fireplace; with a fiery breath, the snake has set the hearth on fire. She picks up the towel that she placed on the floor, climbs up to the bed, tips her head towards Potter and looks at Draco expectantly. 

Getting the message, he turns Potter over, until he's lying face-up. She rests the towel on his forehead, and in a few well-practised manoeuvres, arranges the duvet on top of Potter, making sure he's comfortable. It seems like she's done this — tucking a drunk Potter into bed — many times. 

She slithers to her basket, raises the tip of her tail and waves it at Draco in farewell. 

"Right. Goodnight," he says. He lets himself out, leaving Potter snoring with his pet snake curled protectively beside him. 

He can still feel Potter's handprints on his body, the heat of his touch staying with him well into the night.

* * *

Draco looks up from his discussion about constellations with Aurora when a tawny owl swoops in the Great Hall during breakfast. There is usually more post during the first week of school, but even with the higher volume, this particular owl grabs everyone's attention because of the staggeringly large bouquet the poor bird is carrying — the flowers are two to three times its body size. A hush descends on the Hall as the owl soars towards the faculty table. Draco blinks when it deposits the flowers in front of him — he barely has time to shove his plate and goblet away, lest the owl careen into his food. It heaves a sound of relief before it ruffles its feathers and flies away. 

Draco stares at the flowers in disbelief. They're absolutely beautiful — lavender, light blue, pale pink and soft yellow roses glistening with dew and wrapped in a delicate tissue, and tied with a large glossy ribbon in sparkling silver and green. He hands them to Aurora with a grin. "The owl must've got it wrong. An anniversary or a special occasion, from Rob?" he asks, mentioning her husband. The Slytherin colours of the ribbon must be a nod to Rob's House. 

Intrigued, Aurora flips open the small card pinned to the fragile folds of the bouquet. Draco looks away to give her some privacy. He turns back at her chuckle, his eyes widening when she places the roses in his arms, winking. "Owls never get it wrong."

"You mean..." he trails off, glancing at the card. There’s his name written in elegant, flowing calligraphy at the top, followed by a few scrawled words, obviously written by a different person.

_Hi._

_:)_

_-Harry_

Draco knows what the colon and parenthesis means, thanks to his students’ note passing. He stares at the card, the roses, and then back at the card again. 

"What," he says rather weakly. 

Who sends roses like this with such a bloody underwhelming message?!

He looks at Potter, who is gazing intently at him. Potter mouths _Hi,_ tips his head to the side and unleashes a heartbreaker smile. 

Beside him, Charlie gives Draco an excited thumbs-up. 

Draco scans the other teachers — Minerva is smiling into her pumpkin juice, while Filius is eyeing Potter and him in avid interest. The others show varying degrees of amusement, with Horace jostling Pomona and whispering something into her ear, triggering a chortle. 

Some of the students are standing up, trying to catch a glimpse of the recipient, and whispers spread when they discover it’s Draco. Still shocked, he puts the roses down on the table. Merlin, the bouquet is ridiculously big enough to cover his chest, but not his red face, unfortunately. At a loss of what to do or say, he retreats into politeness, recalling the social niceties his mother has imbued in him when presented with a gift in public: he turns to Potter, musters up a faint smile, and nods in a contained manner, mouthing his thanks.

Potter’s hopeful face falls, and he hesitates before smiling back. He looks down at his bowl, pushing cornflakes around with his spoon in a rather disappointed air.

_What? Is he expecting me to throw my arms around him in gratitude?_

Embarrassed and perhaps a bit pleased, Draco sits with his hands folded in his lap, blushing furiously to the tips of his ears, with a humongous bouquet of beautiful roses in front of him, sandwiched between him and his plate of toast. 

The usual breakfast chatter resumes, and Draco hurriedly picks up his conversation with Aurora, although he can’t stop sneaking glances at the flowers. He waits until the last possible moment to leave for his first class, not wanting the students to see him holding the roses — he’s a professor, for Merlin’s sake, not some bird being courted. He could shrink the roses, but they really are quite lovely; it’d be a shame if they became squashed after unshrinking. 

The beginnings of a blush forming yet again, Draco grabs the roses and hurries out of the Hall. Potter’s eyes are on him, and the remaining knots of students dissolve into excited whispers. He’s got enough time to deposit the flowers in his room before heading to the classroom — he’s certainly not going to leave this in his office or classroom for his students’ gawking pleasure. 

He reaches his chambers, sits on his bed and puts the roses in his lap. It’s only now, in the privacy of his room, that he finally unleashes the wide smile he’s been fighting since breakfast. The flowers are gorgeous — as exquisite and fresh as the ones that Mother grows. He closes his eyes and inhales, the scent reminding him of Mother’s garden, where he likes to take a book and a cup of tea out when the weather is pleasant. The wrapping crinkles under his fingertips as he adjusts the bouquet to brush a finger on a dusky petal, soft and delicate to the touch. They’re in his favourite colours too, how did Potter know about that? _Charlie probably told him._

It’s a no-brainer what Potter aims to accomplish with this gift. Draco’s smile fades when he recalls Potter’s drunken words a few days back. _I’m just a challenge to him. He’ll get bored when I give in. It’s bloody ironic, isn’t it, sending me flowers when I made up my mind to give up on him. I’m not anyone’s plaything to be discarded when he’s lost interest. I can’t let myself fall for him again. I can’t get hurt._

Steely determination surging in him, Draco bins the flowers, ignoring the sadness whistling around his heart. However, before the flowers land in the bin, they fly up into the air, and Draco rears back when they float in front of his face. 

_This bloody castle._

“He doesn’t fancy me in that way, don’t you get it?” he snaps, exasperated. He snatches the roses and chucks them again, but they sail up, smacking him in the face before landing gently on the middle of his bed. 

Draco stares at the flowers, and then at the four walls of his room. 

“Have it your way, then!” he yells, before stomping to his classroom. 

That day, the castle is a right arse about things; messing up staircases (he was twenty minutes late for lunch), extinguishing the fire in his office’s grate (he resorted to warming charms, which faded after every ten minutes) and spelling his parchment and quills to hop out of his hands (his students were very amused. He wasn’t). 

It’s like his first month working at Hogwarts. 

That night, after a particularly tiring day, Draco enters his room, sighing in resignation at the roses nestled amongst his pillows. His entire room now smells pleasantly of fresh flowers. His resistance crumbling at the sight of the bouquet, he collapses in bed and hugs the roses to his chest. 

The fireplace flares into life. 

He smiles into the flowers, and part of him wonders how it would feel to be in Potter’s arms after a long day like today. 

_Oh, Harry, what am I going to do about you?_

* * *

As the weeks pass, Potter showers Draco with thoughtful gifts such as a box of his favourite tea, quills with special ink-erasing feathers and his favourite caramel nougats from Honeydukes. The small presents matched none of the showiness of the roses that started it all, except for… 

One day, Draco received a large chocolate hamper delivered by two exhausted eagle owls (all the way from his favourite chocolatier in France!), and the faculty got so excited they could barely eat their dinner.

After dinner, with an arm wrapped around the hamper, Draco caught Potter after he left the Hall. 

_“Thank you for the gifts, but please stop sending me flowers and chocolates. People are talking.”_

_“But you like them, yeah?”_

_“I… they’re lovely, really, but—“_

A cheeky smile, a mischievous sparkle in green eyes. _“Then let them talk.”_

As usual, Draco couldn’t help but marvel at Potter’s devil-may-care attitude about things, like how he paid no heed to the media storm when he came out. That night, Draco sat on his bed, his heart softening. With a silly, dopey smile like a first-year’s, he peeled off the foil on the chocolate and ate it, sighing in bliss when the silky-smooth candy melted in his mouth.

Now, he bends down to pick up a familiar copy of _Lush_ slipped under his door. 

It’s the October 2002 issue. 

He closes the door and enters the room. Oh, Draco knows this very well — he’s wanked himself raw to the glorious spread of Potter lookalikes; his favourite scene being one of those blokes sucking a blond off. He was teaching in Beauxbatons when it was published, and he squirrelled it away in his room there. Now, his own copy is at home in France — he left it there from this term onwards, thinking that having it around would never help him get over Potter. 

Now, there’s another copy in his hands, sent to him by the bloke of his fantasies himself. 

The effect the mag has on Draco’s libido is so strong that just looking at the cover gets him half-hard, and the small note tacked on it certainly isn’t helping matters: 

_Why bother with this when you can have the real thing?_

His eyes still glued on the words, Draco drops his essays on his table and shrugs his robes off. He goes to his bed, glancing at the roses kept in a vase, before sitting down and palming his prick through his trousers. He flips to the centre of the mag, licking his lips as his gaze roams the familiar sex scenes involving tanned men with messy black hair and round glasses. Before he can get too re-acquainted, his watch chimes, informing him that today’s Duelling Club will start in thirty minutes, granting him enough time for a shower and a quick skim of the content. 

Draco stows the mag in a drawer, and heads to the bathroom. As the water sluices down his body, he groans, feeling his muscles ease after today’s particularly draining Defence classes. His hand slicks along his prick once when he thinks of Potter. He’s always liked having the other man’s attention, but despite the gifts, he doesn’t like how their friendship feels strained now — Potter always has this hopeful look, as if he’s waiting for Draco to do something, which eventually melts into an expression of mild disappointment. Their midnight conversations at the war memorial have decreased in frequency, too. 

Draco emerges from the shower, and as he dresses, he eyes the drawer where the mag is waiting for him. He’ll indulge in a nice, slow wank with it before bed tonight, and try his best to ignore the fact that the object of his affections is a mere fifteen minute walk away.

* * *

Harry throws in the towel a week before Valentine’s Day. 

“Am I doing something wrong?” he says in frustration, words directed towards the Great Lake. “I’ve made my intentions perfectly clear, yeah, with the presents? That I’m mad for him?” He picks up another pebble, rubbing a thumb on the smooth surface. He throws it a tad too hard at the lake, and it sinks instead of skipping. 

Charlie and he are at the shores of the lake on a cool and clear Sunday afternoon. The imposing towers of the castle are to their left, reaching into the blue skies. Faint sunshine peeks out from the edges of white puffball clouds, glimmering on the lake. Mountains stretch into the horizon beyond, the farthest ones obscured by a thick fog. A playful gust of wind glides across Harry’s skin, and he ruffles his hair, irritated.

There’s a crunch of gravel behind Harry when Charlie shifts on the ground, stretching his legs. “Maybe you should be more subtle,” he says, feeding Pork Chop another slab of raw pork chop. 

“Subtle?” Harry echoes, frowning. He grabs another pebble and hurls it into the water. “How?” Subtlety and patience are not his strengths. “Like love letters slipped under doors? He told me he liked the gifts, so why isn’t he reciprocating? Not with more presents,” he clarifies hastily, “but at least hinting to me about his interest, if any.” 

All he has received is a series of polite thanks, as if he offered to help Malfoy mark his scrolls. He hoped the gifts would loosen Malfoy’s inhibitions, but he’s still as enigmatic and inscrutable, keeping everything so close to his heart, his words and behaviour a jigsaw puzzle.

“You want a confession?” Charlie leans back on the trunk of a tree, linking his fingers behind his head. “That’s not Draco’s style.”

“Yeah, I know.” Harry turns back to the lake and tosses another pebble; this time, it skips three times before sinking.

For some reason, the other teachers seem rather keen on helping Harry — they told him about Malfoy’s favourite things and secretly changed the roster for Hogsmeade chaperoning, night patrols and detention duties to create more chances for them to spend time alone. Once, Filius said he was down with a “rather vicious strain of the flu, sorry about that”, so he requested Harry to take his place, pairing him with Malfoy during patrol. However, Harry saw Filius laughing at Horace’s jokes in the staffroom afterwards, flu-free. When he saw Harry staring at his speedy recovery, Filius simply squeaked out a coughing fit into his handkerchief. 

Harry wouldn’t be surprised if his colleagues are betting on this — he vaguely heard Pomona muttering something like _“I’ve got Galleons on this”_ after she helpfully told him about Malfoy’s favourite sweets. 

Their actions were useful, yes, but as time passed, and Draco didn’t reveal anything about his own feelings, Harry’s heart slowly sank like the pebbles in the lake, heavy with rejection. The quiet lull in their dwindling conversations, originally full of expectation, morphed into awkward pauses. Harry stopped visiting Malfoy at the war memorial. A part of him would rather avoid him than pretend to be friends with no other intentions, but he can’t do that, seeing as they’re colleagues. 

“Should I stop?” Harry asks. He steps out of the lake, dries off and pulls his socks and trainers on. 

Charlie blinks at him, a slow smile forming. “That… might actually be a good idea.” There’s more that he isn’t letting on, but Harry reckons it must be difficult listening to both of them, with Malfoy probably swearing Charlie to secrecy. 

Quidditch season is well underway too, leaving Harry with less time to think about this. “Budge up,” he says, sitting beside Charlie and leaning on the same tree. Pork Chop uncoils, splaying herself over their thighs.

Harry sighs. Perhaps he’s just wasting his time.

* * *

“What is he playing at?” Draco snaps. 

“Were you expecting something for Valentine’s Day, perhaps?” Charlie says mildly around a mouthful of butter dragon biscuit. At Draco’s grumpy look towards the crumbs scattered on his office table, Charlie quickly vanishes them. 

_Yes._

“No!” 

“Really?” Charlie arches a brow. 

Draco flounders for a moment. “Maybe. I thought he would do something, after all those gifts.” He huffs and pulls his tea closer. “Has he given up already? Just like that? What about Gryffindor stubbornness, chivalry, blind determination and pointless displays, eh?”

“Hey, I’m a Gryffindor too!” Charlie points out, and then thinks it over. “And those traits apply to me too, so yeah, I see your point.”

Valentine’s Day has come and gone, and Draco didn’t receive anything, besides the usual sweets and handwritten notes from his students, along with a few Cupid’s serenades from some er… rather over-exuberant older students. 

More specifically, he didn’t receive anything from Potter. 

“Rather stroppy, are we? You’re upset when he gives you gifts, and when he doesn’t. Harry just can’t win,” Charlie says. 

Draco knows that is true and unfair to Potter — he’s restless when he doesn’t have his attention, yet bothered about his presents. It’s terribly selfish and irrational, but when has Potter ever made him feel rational? 

Miffed, Draco attempts to calm down by drinking his tea, wincing as he swallows a scalding mouthful.

“I’ve never seen you drink your favourite tea with such fury,” Charlie remarks lightly. He eyes the box of tea and chuckles. He turns it around, showing Draco the other side, tacked with a familiar note: 

_Good morning, Draco._

_:)_

_-Harry_

“Oh, for heaven’s sake—“

Seeing that stupid smiley face again only reminds him of Potter’s crooked grin — that silly, downright adorable smile that makes Draco want to cradle Potter’s face in his palms and snog him senseless.

Draco drinks his tea even angrier.

They’ve spent more time together compared to last term, what with the other teachers changing their rosters last-minute for some maddeningly strange reason. Obviously, Draco doesn’t mind. Yesterday, after their night patrol, he mentioned Potter’s offer of teaching him the Patronus Charm, as the silence grew so awkward that he just wanted a topic, plus it’s something he’s been considering. They spent thirty minutes or so in an abandoned classroom working on his memory. 

He tried thinking about his friends, but those happy memories were soured by the fact that most of them were dead, missing or lost touch with him. He tried using joyful memories about his parents, like when they first taught him how to fly, but that was stained by his father’s death. It felt like every happy recollection was marred by the War. Draco could only summon an incorporeal glowing wisp, although Potter did say he saw something like a wing before it faded.

When Potter got too close, pressing his front to Draco’s back lightly to correct his posture, Draco fought to steady the rapid thudding of his heart. He expected Potter to flash him a cheeky smile and inch nearer, but instead, he muttered an apology and moved away. Potter stopped visiting the war memorial, too. 

The castle isn’t helping things either (or helping, depending on your point of view); the staircases, secret passageways and halls were already confusing enough, let alone the sudden deviations to said devices — many a time Draco would be taking the well-trodden path from his room to his classroom, only to end up near Potter’s chambers. On average, they bump into each other no less than six times throughout the day, and even the other man looked genuinely surprised after it became a habit — _“Looks like someone really wants us to see each other, eh?”_

“Don’t you fancy him back?” Charlie asks, jolting Draco from his musings. 

He presses his lips together, managing a vague “Maybe.” 

He hasn’t told Charlie yet about his reservations regarding Potter.

“Draco, there’s no need to be so cautious. Harry’s a good bloke, although he can be too impulsive. Come to think about it, you two balance each other out rather well,” Charlie says, with a patient smile. “Sometimes, you just have to close your eyes, let go and… fall.”

And therein lies the problem. _I’ve fallen for him before, and the thing is… I doubt he’ll be there to catch me._

* * *

For the third time that evening, Draco looks up from his exam questions and puts his quill down. He sniffs the air again, his mouth watering at the tempting whiff of fresh chips. This must be the castle's doing — the dungeons are nowhere near the kitchens. He forces himself to focus on plotting the obstacle course for the third years. It’s only March, but he prefers to set his questions early. He picks up his quill, his stomach growling at the thought of chips, crisp and golden-brown on the outside, fluffy inside. He glances at the towering stack of scrolls demanding his marking next. Surely there's no harm in a quick break?

He sighs and drops his quill. He stretches, wincing when the kinks in his spine pop. He stands up, rotates his shoulders and neck, and grabs his wand. Yes, a stroll to the kitchens would do very nicely. 

The halls are quiet — it's almost eleven pm, after curfew. Draco requests for an order of chips from the kitchens, and happily returns to his chambers, looking forward to settling down with his food, and perhaps a bracing cup of tea.

His good mood evaporates when he finds the door to his room locked. 

"What the—" 

This is beyond his locking charms. Annoyance mounting, Draco unleashes a barrage of unlocking spells, but to no avail. He steps back and glares at the dungeons, before lunging forward and banging on his own door. “Let me in!" he yells. "I've got piles to mark, and I just want to sit down somewhere and eat, you meddling castle!"

A long pause ensues, in which absolutely nothing happens.

He rattles the doorknob, but the castle is not budging. 

Defeated, Draco spends the next minute standing helplessly outside his door and angrily eating a handful of chips. 

"Am I supposed to go to his room?" he asks, addressing the walls. "Will I find him there, with a roaring fireplace and lots of food, and him in bed waiting for—" Furious, he breaks off, not willing to complete that pleasant train of thought.

In response, the sconces extinguish abruptly, leaving only two alight on his left, which leads him to Potter. Incensed, he stomps there, banging hard on Potter's door and shouting his name, but receiving no reply. _He can't be ignoring me, can he?_ Draco presses his ear to the door, but there's no movement inside. 

He ignores the swoop of disappointment in his belly. 

Frustrated, Draco shakes a fist at the castle and _roars._

"Stop it! Stop forcing us to—"

Potter rounds the corner and catches him in mid-wail, and Draco shuts his mouth at once, thoroughly embarrassed. 

"Why are you having a meltdown with a plate of chips outside my room?" Potter asks. He’s a muddy, shivering mess — still in his Quidditch leathers, tracking wet footprints behind him. His hair is windswept with one leaf nestled within, and Merlin, he looks knackered, grass stains on his cheeks, dull eyes and lips not curved in their usual grin. 

"Full day of training, late session with some Ravenclaws in crap weather, stayed back to pack up," he mutters. "Am grumpy, tired, cold and dirty, and won't be good company until after a shower and some food. But you can come in if you wanna, you'll have to bear with me for a bit.”

Draco watches as Potter jiggles his doorknob, growling in irritation when his door remains locked even after a succession of unlocking spells.

"That's why I'm here, because my room is locked too, so I thought maybe..." Draco says. 

"Maybe it's another one of the castle's ploys to match-make us?" Potter says flatly. Without waiting for an answer, he props his broom on the wall and drops to the floor, opening the door-flap and hissing through it. 

_Please don't get hard._ Draco looks up at the ceiling. Salazar, that downright sexy and guttural Parseltongue, when murmured in that deep baritone of a voice is such a turn-on.

"She's hunting," Potter says after he gets back to his feet.

"Perhaps you could clean yourself in the prefects' bathroom, and then get some food from the kitchens?" Draco suggests. "In the meantime, I'll think of something, maybe transfigure a few tables in empty classrooms into beds..." 

"No. No bloody way," Potter says, shaking his head. "I'm not trekking around the castle. I want a warm shower, some food and a bed in the same damn place."

"Charlie's?" 

"I'm not going out again." 

"Perhaps Minerva will know what to do?" 

Potter sighs, before visibly collecting himself and grabbing his broom, treading alongside Draco as they make their way to Minerva's chambers. Draco refreshes Potter's warming and drying charms, eliciting a grateful smile. He offers his chips to Potter, who thanks him and grabs a handful. They walk in silence; it's clear Potter is not in the mood for conversation. 

When they reach Minerva's quarters, Draco taps on the door. It swings open, revealing Minerva already in a tartan dressing gown. "What's the matter, gentlemen? Has something happened to the students?" 

"No," Draco says. "My apologies for our disturbance at this late hour, but the castle has locked us out of our rooms.”

Minerva blinks at them. "Well..." she says, raising her eyebrows meaningfully. “I know of a place that can give you what you _require_. Goodnight, gentlemen, and I shall see you tomorrow at breakfast." 

Then she promptly shuts the door in their startled faces.

"Looks like it's the seventh floor, then," Potter says, his shoulders slumping. “Damn, it’s far.” 

Draco gulps when he recalls the Fiendfyre in the Room of Requirement, when he was screaming into Potter's ear, holding him tight. Besides the Astronomy Tower, the Room is another area he avoided, although he has entered it a few times with Filius to conduct some repairs. 

He lets Potter wish for the Room, and a door emerges from the stone wall. Potter groans in relief when it clicks open under his touch. They enter, and... 

A large and luxurious wingback bed, complete with plump pillows, silver satin sheets and a thick fluffy duvet, is the centrepiece of the Room. On the nearby table, there is a big, steaming pot of minestrone soup and a large plate of chips. Draco looks down at his empty plate — they've been munching on chips as they trudged around the castle. Tucked to the side is a door, no doubt leading to an en-suite. 

When they move closer to the bed, the candles dim. Celestina Warbeck's "A Cauldron Full of Hot, Strong Love" pipes softly into the Room. 

They stare when a torrent of red rose petals fall from the ceiling onto the bed. 

"Er, I really didn’t wish for only one bed," Potter says rather weakly. His eyes dart towards Draco before returning to the bed. 

Draco clears his throat, looking away. "I believe the shower is there," he says, indicating the en-suite. Potter nods and hurries away. 

When he’s inside the bathroom, he lets out a muffled whoop of glee. "It's not just a shower, Malfoy, it's a bath! Just like the prefects' bathroom! Not as large, but still brilliant!" 

"That's... good. Enjoy your bath," Draco shouts back. He sits down at the table, and pops a chip in his mouth. 

So they're to spend the night together. 

Sharing one bed. 

Draco eyes the bed in wariness and anticipation. He glances at the en-suite, where Potter is splashing happily. Will anything happen between them? Or will they engage in awkward, stilted conversation? He could pretend to be asleep when Potter finishes, neatly avoiding all of this. _But I don't want things to continue like this._ Maybe the castle is forcing them together to sort things out properly. Maybe Potter misses him too. Then what's going to happen? Kiss and make up? He looks at the bed again. 

Or more?

Draco nibbles on the chips as he turns over the possibilities of tonight. He's so lost in thought that he jumps when Potter, in a loose T-shirt and baggy knee-length shorts, emerges. There's a towel slung around his neck, and he uses it to pat his damp hair as he walks towards Draco. 

"Wow, you must be hungry. That's half of the chips gone," he says, with an easy smile. He ladles out a bowl of minestrone, sighing in happiness at the first sip. He peers up at Draco through his tousled fringe, and Draco suppresses an urge to comb it back with his fingers. "Sorry if I got a bit shirty with you. Wasn't in the best of moods," he admits. 

Draco waves his apology away, saying that it's alright. 

"Haven't seen you around," Potter says, which Draco translates it to _haven't talked to you like we used to._

"Yes. I've been busy," Draco hedges. "You too, I'm sure." 

"Yeah." Potter shrugs nonchalantly, although the look in his eyes tells Draco there's a lot more he wants to say. 

Time stretches as they eat, and eventually Potter pushes his bowl away. He lifts his chin at Draco, his eyes bright and his gaze piercing, determination in his words. "So it's a no, then? I mean, it's pretty obvious, but I want to be clear before I completely give up." 

Startled, Draco blinks. "A no to what?" The minute the words come out, he gets it, a second too late. 

Potter scoffs. "C'mon, Malfoy. You know what I'm talking about. This stupid thing that's made things so awkward. All my gifts... only to get a tight-lipped thank you in return. If you don't fancy me back, have the guts to tell me! I can take it, you know. It'll hurt, yeah, but I'll get over it, and we can go back to..." He waves a hand in the air. "Whatever we were, last term. I'm tired of guessing, tired of your damn games." 

Draco’s own simmering anger comes to a boil at Potter’s flippant manner, a squirm of disappointment twisting his heart. He snaps, pointing at his own chest, "Me? It’s not my bloody fault! You’re the one giving mixed messages, sending presents and courting people when the only thing you’re interested in is a shag!"

"What?" Potter says, recoiling as if he'd been slapped. 

"I'm not a challenge, Potter. You're always going on about the next thing you can chase, something new that’s caught your fancy, like how you threw pro Quidditch out of the window when you lost interest," Draco says, unleashing weeks’ worth of pent-up tension and over-thinking. "I'm not a... a Quidditch World Cup you can win, a notch on your fucking bedpost and my arse is not a prize to be obtained. You just want to finish what we started years ago, in the loo at the Leaky." 

"How dare you assume—" 

"Assume? That night after Charlie and the Three Broomsticks, I helped you back and you were grabbing me, saying how I was a challenge and you couldn't wait to win me," Draco repeats, those words stamped into his memory. "What if I say yes, and we shag? You'll toss me over for the next bloke eager enough to open his legs, won't you?" 

"I was drunk! Don't you say weird shit when you're drunk too, Malfoy?" Potter throws his hands up in frustration. "I can't believe you've got it wrong all this time! I'm not chasing you for the sex. Yeah, sure, I wanna shag you, you're fit like hell, I'm not gonna deny that, but has it ever crossed your mind that I might want other things besides sex?" 

"Like what? A proper relationship? You don't know me well enough to want that!" 

"Don't know you well enough—" Potter splutters. 

"I want things to go back to how they used to be!" Draco demands. "I want us to talk at night, I want you to tell me jokes and funny things and make me laugh. I hate it when things are awkward between us, I want—"

"So, just friends?" Potter summarises, sagging in defeat. 

"Yes." _For now._

Unable to bear the stifling silence and Potter's stony gaze, Draco escapes to the bathroom. There's his pyjamas and a toothbrush. He knows he's being cautious — _you're always too cautious, Draco,_ Charlie says — but he can't fall for Potter again without knowing that he returns Draco’s affections, until he's sure it doesn’t revolve around sex. 

When he exits from the en-suite, Potter's already in bed — he must've used a charm on his teeth. But he's not asleep; green eyes blink at Draco before Potter turns away. His heart dipping, Draco sweeps away the rose petals and slips into bed. The candles blow out, plunging the Room into darkness, except for a thin strip of moonlight across the bed. Draco stares at the back of Potter's head.

"Goodnight, Potter." 

The bed is perfumed and rose-scented, the sheets silky and enticing, and it’s so easy to reach over and touch Potter, Salazar knows Draco wants to, so much. But he can’t. Not yet, not now. 

"Should I give up on you? Is it entirely one-sided, on my part?" Potter whispers. 

"No," Draco murmurs, and he aches to wrap an arm around Potter. "No. Don't give up. I..." _I fancy you too. But it's too fast, what you're asking of me._ "Let's take it slow, please? Let’s not rush. Friends first, and then we'll see?" 

"I'm not good at waiting. It's all or nothing with me, you know that." A deep sigh. "Give me a while, Malfoy. It's difficult 'cause I... I like you, but yet you want to go back to being friends, and it's bloody difficult. You're here, and the only thing I wanna do is hold you—" A frustrated sound. "Just give me some time. Goodnight, Malfoy." 

That night, neither of them slept well, tossing and turning, too aware of each other's proximity in the shared bed, lost in the thistles of their own thoughts, suppressed desires and mismatched expectations.

* * *

It's definitely a wing.

When the wisp of silvery light loses shape and fades, Draco summons it again, excitement thrumming in his veins. He breaks into a thrilled grin when his semi-corporeal Patronus appears. He can't discern the exact animal, as it dissipates as quickly as it emerges, but from what he can see, his Patronus isn't a large one, probably about the length of his forearm. The glowing light bobs briefly in the air, flapping a wing. 

He has to tell Potter. _Not now,_ Draco tells himself when all he wants to do is run to Potter's room. He glances at his clock — it's ten thirty on a school night, this surely can wait until tomorrow.

Still smiling, Draco sinks into his chair. Warmth spreads in him when he recalls Potter's patient tutelage. It's been a month since that night in the Room of Requirement. Nothing changed during the first week, with Potter retreating into polite conversations. Eventually, Potter returned to the war memorial for a late-night chat. Things started out rather slow, but it wasn't long before it felt like last term. Potter is so genuine, earnest and funny. They commiserate about misbehaving students, share amusing anecdotes and gossip about teachers, and plans about their futures. It’s as if nothing has changed since last term... 

... except for the equally smitten looks they give each other when they think the other isn’t looking. 

Draco's falling harder for Potter with every soft smile and bright laugh, and it's clear Potter is waiting for him to initiate something. Draco worries his lower lip, frowning. Maybe he should do something soon — perhaps ask him out for dinner… 

No. They're colleagues. If Draco takes that risk, and it doesn't work out, things will become awkward. He should wait until end of term; summer hols will soften the blow, if needed. For now, he's comfortable with things, so he shouldn’t push it. Nodding at his decision, Draco stands up and holds out his wand, ready to continue. Wouldn't it be wonderful if he could conjure a proper Patronus tonight and tell Potter about it tomorrow?

The incantation wilts on his lips when a cat Patronus bounds into his room. Its mouth opens, and Minerva's voice, calm, yet laced with urgency, emerges. "Teachers, your assistance is required at Charlie Weasley's hut. If you see any students on your way, send them back to their dorms at once. Heads of Houses, order your prefects to keep the students indoors. No one is allowed outside under any circumstances. Please hurry."

Draco leaps into action, pulling on his robes, and then rushing to the dungeons to execute Minerva's orders. On his way out, he runs into Horace, panting like a train and leading a huddle of pale-faced Gryffindors, who appear to be unharmed. Along with Aurora and Pomona, who are covering the other wings of Hogwarts, the older man’s instructions are to keep everyone indoors. 

"What's happening outside?" Draco asks, cursing the lack of view from his room.

"Dragon, Charlie's dragon," Horace shouts, already running towards Gryffindor Tower. "Go, Draco, they need you!" 

Draco whirls around and dashes towards the Forbidden Forest. When he enters the open grounds, he looks at the horizon, gasping in horror when a large plume of fire lights up the night sky. A furious roar echoes, followed by a disconcerting muddle of shouts. A cacophony of birds squawk, fleeing from the crowns of the Forest trees. There's a ground-shaking stomp, and Draco stumbles in mid-stride as he hastens to the cabin.

He spies Potter and his snake a short distance ahead, and he quickens his pace. They exchange terse greetings, and Potter swears when they absorb the scene. An adult Norwegian Ridgeback is thrashing about, determined to advance towards Charlie's hut, for some reason. A cluster of people — Minerva, Filius, Charlie and three Keepers that appear to be from the Romanian sanctuary — surround the dragon. Its head turns towards Potter and him, and it snaps its jaws, revealing rows of fanged teeth. Potter leaps in front of Draco at once, and Draco throws up a shield charm. 

"Norberta!" Charlie hollers, jumping and raising his arms. He adjusts his fireproof balaclava and shouts again, catching the dragon's attention. It staggers towards Charlie, who backs away into a grove of trees. Magical ropes snap around the dragon's ankles; Filius and Minerva quickly conjure new restraints. The dragon’s formidable spiny wings attempt to beat, but it can't — someone must've grounded it. 

Charlie yells, "It's Charlie! C'mon, Norberta!" 

The dragon promptly roasts a nearby tree, narrowly missing him as he rolls out of the way.

The torrent of fire cuts a swathe of destruction through this stretch of the Forest. One of the Keepers jumps on a broom and soars into the air to contain the flames, while the others renew their efforts to control the dragon. Adrenaline pumping in his veins, Draco darts around the area to cast a series of protective spells around each person, augmenting them with fire-resistant qualities, while taking care to avoid the dragon's snorts and hefty feet. 

"I miss Everest too, but this won't bring him back!" Charlie yells.

The dragon pauses and stares at him for a moment, its bulging, orange eyes blinking, as if in disbelief.

"It's alright, old girl, let's just calm down, it's me, Charlie," he coaxes, his voice melodic and gentle.

Draco holds his breath, his wand pointed at Charlie, every nerve ending standing at attention as grey eyes dart between Charlie and the beast. When its long snout twitches, its mouth opening, a defensive spell is already on Draco's lips, halted only when Charlie throws his hand up at Draco—

The dragon throws its head back and releases a heartbroken wail, the emotion behind it so visceral and tragic that Draco can sense its fury and sorrow. _Everest must have been her mate._ They're dealing with a female dragon that is confused, angry and grieving. Simply stunning her will not be enough. 

"Norberta? What's she doing back here?" Potter says, beside Draco. He fires a spell at Filius, levitating him out of danger when Norberta's tail thuds on the spot where he was seconds ago.

"Back here? When was she ever at Hogwarts?" 

"Our first year. D'you remember the dragon you saw that was born in Hagrid's hut? It's the same one." Potter breaks off to cast another spell. "Got Charlie to bring it to Romania.”

 _This is the same dragon?_ Draco stares at the enormous beast, sharp black ridges lining its back and brown scales shimmering under the moonlight. "Why is she here?" 

Potter shrugs. "Not important. Charlie must have a plan.” He dashes off towards him, with Draco and Pork Chop hot on his heels. Draco glances at the Ashwinder — instead of a full pale-grey, her body is now reticulated with bright red molten fire tracing along her scales, as if she's powered up, but how can a small snake like her help against a dragon?

"Harry!” Charlie says, one eye on the dragon, who stumbles and falls, having just received two Stunning curses to the chest from the Keepers. The ropes wound around her grant them a short respite. The other teachers rush to Charlie, with Minerva demanding a solution. 

"I need you to fly," Charlie says to Potter. He pulls out a sachet brimming with black, glittering powder from his robes. "Get on top, and when her face is turned up, towards you, get close enough to sprinkle this into her nostrils and mouth. This will stop her fire; weaken her for a moment." 

"One hand for him to steer and the other to pour this, at the same time?" Draco splutters. 

"No, two hands on the broom. Pork Chop will be with you. She'll do the powder. She's seen us do this at the sanctuary. Tell her this," he says, and Potter does so. 

Charlie turns to Draco. "Protect Harry. Everyone else, keep her in place and try to direct her focus to him. When the powder’s in, she'll stop, and we'll stun her. All of us together, at the same time."

"Got it," Potter says, and summons one of the Keeper's brooms. His face is grim with determination, eyes blazing behind his glasses, about to launch into his usual noble heroics. This time, Potter might not make it out alive, Merlin, flying on top of a full-grown dragon that's trembling with rage, he's lucky not to get roasted into a crisp.

Draco stares at Potter's retreating back as he walks away, broom gripped in his hand. What if Potter doesn't survive, and Draco didn’t manage to—

"Have dinner with me," Draco blurts out, seized by panic and anxiety about Potter’s safety.

Potter freezes, before slowly turning around to face him. 

"What?" he says faintly. 

"Have dinner with me!" Draco yells. Potter tosses his broom to the ground and breaks into a run towards him. "Go out with me, on a date!” 

"You complete and utter berk," Potter whispers in amazement and shock. "I've been chasing you for months, and you're asking me out when a dragon is about to set fire to the school?"

"I mean..." Draco says, looking away. Shit, what if Potter has given up on him? He fucked up, he should've— 

His thoughts screech to a stop when Potter laughs, a giddy and joyful sound that cuts through Draco's doubts and insecurities. "What am I going to do with you, you gorgeous, lovely bastard? Of course I'll have dinner with you.” Before Draco can react, his mind still reeling at Potter's words, the other man is pulling him close, cupping his face with his hands, and they're finally _kissing_ , Potter's lips slightly chapped against his. Draco wastes no time in deepening the kiss, pouring all his desperation, sexual attraction and worry into the kiss. Potter smiles, and it's utter perfection, almost as fiery as the sudden surge of heat on Draco's right—

"That's it! Stop, _stop_ , you two!" Charlie shrieks. They break apart at once, their faces flushed in embarrassment, but grinning like loons. "Bloody hell, get out of here and save the damn castle, then you can snog all you want!" 

"It's happened. It's finally happened!" Filius squeaks, clapping his hands gleefully as he looks at them. 

The dragon is slowly heaving up from the ground, the ropes snapping like strings as she recovers from the barrage of spells. She eyes Charlie's hut with renewed focus. Potter looks down at a hissing Pork Chop, who is glaring at them in disapproval, her jaws clamped around his broom. He snatches it up. 

"Get it done, and we'll have that dinner," Draco promises, backing away to join the other teachers. 

Potter breaks into a brilliant smile. He spins around and mounts his broom, with Pork Chop coiled around it, and his whoops of delight echoing in the air. 

_Concentrate._ Draco’s lips are still tingling from the kiss. _Guard him, keep him safe._ His world narrows to Potter's weaving and diving figure, glowing with the orange of the flames as he dodges another plume of fire. Draco scampers around the area, throwing up defence charms and fire-resisting shields around Potter and his snake. The heat and adrenaline surging through Draco makes him sweat as he keeps his eyes fixed on Potter's dance with the dragon. Potter now has the dragon's full attention, and it snarls, its jaws snapping as it spars with the pesky figure floating near her head, her large paws jabbing at Potter like how one would bat away a fly. 

There's a close shave when the flames get too close to Potter's broom, singeing the bristles. Potter dips alarmingly, but Draco's levitating charm lifts him. Potter is aiming for the right angle, yet avoiding her fangs and fire, for Pork Chop to uncoil and up-end the sachet over her head. 

"Now," Draco mutters when Potter spies an opening and goes as close as he can, bobbing in the air a short height above her mouth. Pork Chop's body unwinds as quickly as a whip, just the tip of her tail dangling from the end of Potter's broom and her head flicking out as she spills the powder into the dragon's mouth. She withdraws to the safety of Potter's broom, but she isn’t fast enough — one of the dragon's paws swipe her away, flinging her off. 

"No, Porks!" Potter screams, speeding out of Draco's protective bubble. Her limp body falls, bouncing off a horn stub on the dragon’s head before soaring through the air. Potter yanks out his wand and points it at the snake's body. He's moving too fast for Draco to catch up, and Draco only has time to envelop him in a cushioning charm to protect him before he flies out of Draco's wand range.

The dragon whines in distress and shakes its great head in confusion, its snout thrashing wildly in the air. It snorts and huffs, black puffs of powder whooshing from its nostrils and mouth. 

"Now!" Charlie yells. The teachers on the ground obey; aiming an explosive shower of red Stunning spells at the dragon’s chest. Its body slams onto the ground, but it's not giving up without a fight — it lifts its tail weakly and twists it, hitting Potter who is floating in mid-air and levitating his snake to a safe height near Minerva— 

Minerva jerks her wand towards Potter. Paralysed with worry and fear, Draco watches, his heart stopping as Potter's limp body falls into a cluster of trees in the Forest.

* * *

It takes Potter three days to wake up. 

When he grunts, Draco drops the book he wasn’t reading and scoots his chair closer to the bed. His body tense, Draco watches as Potter wiggles his fingers and toes, touching his own arms and stretching his legs to check for injuries, just like they learned in the Academy. Potter’s eyelids flutter open, and he gives Draco a slow, crooked smile. "Hey." 

"Hello. How are you feeling?" Draco asks, sagging in relief. 

"Like I went a few rounds with the Whomping Willow," Potter replies, his voice hoarse from disuse.

At the sight of a stirring Potter, Pork Chop quickly uncoils from her basket at his bedside, revealing a medicated bandage around her healing mid-section. He hisses something in worry, his frown deepening at her bandage. She drapes her head and neck on his chest, as if taking solace in his heartbeat. As they talk, Potter looks at his healing injuries — burns, especially on his arms, and cuts and bruises inflicted by his fall. Draco's cushioning charm and Minerva's _Arresto Momentum_ lessened the impact; he got away with a few broken bones and a concussion — conditions that Poppy Pomfrey and a few days of bed rest could heal. 

Potter glances at the pile of gifts, fruit baskets and get-well cards at the foot of his bed. He slants a sly grin at Draco. "Porks told me you were here every day. Guess you really fancy me, eh?" 

"If you're well enough to say things like that, I reckon I'll take my leave then," Draco says with a sniff, even though they both know he's not going anywhere. 

Potter looks around the infirmary, a wistful smile on his lips. "Back here again, like when I was a student. With my record, I reckon one quiet year of teaching is out of the question." He gazes at Draco for a moment, before melting into a goofy grin. "You're so gorgeous." 

Draco blinks at the non sequitur, although part of him is inordinately pleased. "It's the potions talking," he says, pouring Potter a glass of water. "Although yes, I do know I'm gorgeous, thank you very much." 

Potter laughs so hard, he ends up coughing. 

Pork Chop hisses and slides off his chest. Draco props him to a sitting position, and hands him the glass. Potter drinks deeply from it.

"I couldn't die after you asked me out, yeah?" he says, putting the empty glass down. 

"Such a pleasant thought, knowing that you hung onto the edge of survival because of dinner with me," Draco says blandly. He takes Potter's hand in his, his thumb stroking the delicate web of skin between Potter's thumb and forefinger. "I'm so glad you're alright.” He inclines his head, pressing a gentle kiss on the back of Potter's hand, only to look up to see Potter staring at him, eyes wide with intent. Draco’s face heats up, and he lets go. 

"Sorry. Am I being too forward? I should let you recover first—" 

"Let's go for dinner now," Potter says, leaping into action. He yanks the duvet back, and swings his legs over the bed, much to Draco's astonishment. Pork Chop makes an admonishing sound and leans forward, trying to pull him back. 

"Whoa!" Potter yelps, cupping the side of his head and swaying on his feet.

"It's four in the afternoon, you knob," Draco points out, gently pushing him back to bed. "You'll be on bed rest for the next few days, until Poppy says otherwise.”

"Days?" Potter says, dismayed. "I've been waiting months to go out with you! Years, even!" 

"As flattering as that is, your health comes first. Now, rest. I won't be going anywhere." 

Potter grabs his hand, and Draco doesn't pull away. 

Charlie appears, his eyes widening at a conscious Potter. He raises his eyebrows at their clasped hands; Draco shifts away, but Potter holds on tighter. Draco fights to keep the growing smile off his face. 

"I'm so sorry, Harry," Charlie says, bursting into a round of apologies as he drops his Quidditch things and sinks down into a chair. "Got a proper earful from Minerva. I'm lucky I still have a job here." He gestures to the box of Quidditch balls and the broom on the floor. "I took over your refereeing and teaching duties, well, Quidditch and football only, I’m afraid. I'm absolute pants at basketball and the others.” 

"S'alright," Potter says. "Why was Norberta here?" 

Draco listens as Charlie launches into the explanation that he’s already heard. Everest was indeed Norberta’s mate. Distraught and heartbroken over his death, and infused with hormones and spells that amplified her motherly nesting instinct as part of the Ridgeback captive breeding programme, Norberta broke free from the sanctuary in the middle of the night and started her non-stop, arduous journey to return to her birthplace. 

The Keepers exhausted all efforts to track her with their ageing equipment and limited manpower. When they finally figured out her destination, they tried to catch up, but getting approval from the Ministries for emergency Portkeys was a major problem too. By the time they took the Portkey and flew to Hogwarts, they reached moments after the dragon touched solid ground. 

"Is she alright now?" Potter asks.

"Yeah. After we stunned her, we used Sleeping Draughts to keep her in the Forest. We waited a day for more Keepers to arrive. They brought her back to Romania, the same way we transported dragons for the Triwizard Tournament." Charlie looks down, tugging at his earring. "It'll take some time, but she'll be fine, especially when her nesting instinct fades. She loved Everest, and Everest loved her.” He looks at Potter’s injuries, and mumbles another guilty apology. 

"Hey, it's not so bad. I got a dinner date with the bloke of my dreams, so..." Potter says breezily, grinning at Draco. 

_Bloke of his dreams—_

"Laying it on rather thick, aren't you?" Charlie says. He turns to Draco, his mischievous smile matching Potter's. "Say, what you did that night, asking Harry out in such a rash, spur-of-the-moment way… How very Gryffindor of you." 

Draco blinks at the insinuation. "I must be associating too much with you.”

"And now, you're going out with another Gryffindor," Charlie says, winking. "Perhaps we'll make you, the Head of Slytherin, an honorary Gryffindor soon, yeah?"

Draco’s only answer, when faced with two grinning Gryffindors, is a hopeless groan.

* * *

Together with the rest of the faculty, Draco raises his glass, toasting to Potter's recovery. After their monthly staff meeting, the proceedings took a celebratory turn, with a selection of alcohol and Potter's favourite treacle tart laid out on the staffroom table. 

"With how things have progressed, I should think it would be safe to conclude the bet," Minerva says, retrieving her coin-purse. 

The other teachers, except Potter and Draco, mutter amongst themselves and pull out their own money. Both men share a look, although Potter's confused expression clears up rather quickly. 

"What bet?" Draco asks, feeling rather left out. 

"Why, the amount of time it would take for you and Harry to be a couple, of course!" Horace says cheerfully, withdrawing a handful of Galleons. 

_What?_

"We're not... we're not officially together yet!" Draco insists, spluttering. "We haven't even gone out!" He frowns at them, mortified. "You were betting on whether we were going to get together?" 

"Oh no, that's a given, don't you think?" Aurora says with a smile. "We were betting on _when."_

"We thought Charlie would win, since he's the closest to you two," Filius says, shaking his head in visible sorrow as he reaches over and drops a sizeable amount of coins on the middle of the table.

"That worked to my disadvantage, actually. They kept confiding in me about the other, so I thought they'd get together a lot sooner," Charlie says, sighing, as he adds his Galleons to the growing pile of money. 

"Hang on. When did this," Draco gestures to the coins, "start?"

"The first day of term," Charlie says. At Potter's growl, he immediately covers his mouth, sheepish. 

Draco quickly thinks back. "That was before he started sending the roses and gifts, which means you knew about his plans—" He glares at Potter, who looks rather embarrassed, rubbing his earrings with his thumb and forefinger. Draco elbows him. “Explain yourself!”

Potter clears his throat. "Er. When I returned, I asked Minerva for permission to chase you—" 

_”What?”_

"—to check if there were any rules against teachers dating each other. She said it was alright. I definitely didn't expect the entire faculty to know so soon, let alone bet on it." He gives Minerva a wronged look, but the Headmistress is entirely unapologetic. 

Pomona adds her money to the pile, sighing. "You two did take surprisingly long to sort things out, what with the riveting amount of unresolved sexual tension." 

All of them turn to stare at her. 

"To quote the students," she backpedals quickly, patting her hair, flustered. "According to the students!"

Has the whole world gone mad?!

"Pray tell me, Potter," Draco says, his voice even and low. "Does anyone else, besides the teachers, know about your grand plans to court me?" 

Potter absently picks at a loose thread on the end of his sleeve. "I did mention it to a few people during Christmas. Ron and Hermione know, of course," he says, counting it off his fingers. "Luna said I had a lot of Wrackspurts around my head, so she asked if I was keen on anyone. She knows, which means Neville knows, and Ginny too, I would reckon." He pauses, thinking, but before he can name any more, Draco snaps. 

"Why not take out an empty space on the front page of the _Prophet_?" He splays his hands in the air, mimicking a dramatic headline. "Harry Potter courts Draco Malfoy at Hogwarts with roses, chocolates and assorted gifts! Both men are now off the market! Turn to page three for juicy details!"

Potter brightens. "D'you really want that? It'd save me the trouble of telling everyone separately. I could tell my Magpies mates, my Hogwarts friends and the Weasleys together! That'd be brilliant.” 

Draco opens and closes his mouth, speechless for a moment. He lashes out in exasperation, much to the amusement of their colleagues. "Your skin is as thick as a rhinoceros, Potter! Why do you always infuriate me, even when we're... we're..." 

"Together?" Filius supplies. 

Potter chuckles. "You should've seen your face. Of course I'm not going to the news, although I mean it when I say everyone will know about us." Still grinning, and ignoring Draco's mild sulking, he looks at the Galleons. It appears everyone has contributed to it. 

"So who won the bet?" he asks. 

"Dumbledore," everyone says in unison.

He laughs. "Still doesn't miss a thing, eh?" 

Minerva collects the coins. "Albus has given me instructions that if he were to win, the money would be spent on a nice faculty dinner.” She pauses as the room erupts into a chorus of cheers, and Draco smiles. “The remaining money will be used to obtain textbooks for needy students. Shall we meet this Saturday evening for dinner at the Three Broomsticks?" 

Potter makes a sound of distress, and Draco steps on his foot under the table, silencing him. 

"That sounds wonderful,” Draco says smoothly, ignoring Potter's grumpy looks, because this Saturday night was supposed to be their date to Hogsmeade. 

Which means Potter will have to wait until next week to get Draco all to himself. 

_Well, this is what you get for making a fool out of me, yeah?_

Still, to soothe Potter's internal protests, Draco slides a hand on his knee, giving him a quick squeeze. He slants a coy glance towards Potter, and winks. 

_I'll make it worth your while._

In return, Potter puts his hand on top of Draco's, and squeezes back. 

_You better._

* * *

Harry lightly bumps his shoulder against Malfoy.

Malfoy bumps back as they walk along the shore of the Great Lake. He pairs the movement with a playful glance, which quickly turns heated when grey eyes scan Harry’s body. 

He hasn’t taken his eyes off Harry for the entire night. 

That’s a benefit of wearing T-shirts and shorts for most of term — turning up in a simple white collared shirt, slim navy blue tie and well-fitting black trousers for their Sunday date in the swankiest restaurant in Hogsmeade is more than enough to render Malfoy speechless. Malfoy looks like an absolute treat tonight — styled blond hair, twinkling grey eyes, and in a tailored charcoal-grey suit, complete with a white silk pocket square, and… 

…an enormous bouquet of vibrant red roses, wrapped in Gryffindor colours, which he promptly gave to Harry with a suave smile before they sat down to dinner earlier. When Harry opened the card accompanying the flowers, he laughed at the words: 

_Good evening._

_:)_

_-Draco_

Harry is holding the flowers in his right hand. On an impulse, he catches Malfoy’s hand in his left, lacing their fingers together. Malfoy pauses mid-step, and looks around. “There might be students.”

“I don’t care,” Harry says stubbornly, not letting go. He continues to walk, tugging Malfoy along. “We’re finally on a date, you brought flowers, the view is brilliant, and I want to hold your hand.”

Malfoy relaxes. Here they are, two teachers holding hands as they take a moonlit stroll along the Great Lake, their faces coloured with pink glowing blushes.

“Oh,” Malfoy murmurs, startled, when they pause at a spot that Harry is familiar with — when the weather is pleasant, he goes for a swim and stops here, where he would launch into his exercises. If he doesn’t have an early class, he’ll finish with a run. 

“Why’d you stop here?” Harry asks. 

There is a glassy look in Malfoy’s eyes, as if he’s recalling a memory. “I saw you here,” he says faintly. His unfocused expression clears, and his gaze drops down Harry’s body. “Saw you swimming in your tiny pants, and then I saw you do your exercises, your stretching.” 

Harry flushes in embarrassment, and says, “Speedos. The Muggles call the pants Speedos. I’m sorry, did I disturb you? I thought no one would—“ 

“I should be the one apologising, because I… I wanked to you. I was there.” Malfoy points to a large tree a distance away, his words spilling out faster, as if he’s releasing them after holding them in for a long time. “Tossed my book aside, pulled down my trousers, and wanked as I watched you in those ridiculously tiny Speedos, thinking how much I wanted to blow you.” He shakes his head. “It was a complete invasion of your privacy, and entirely inappropriate. I would like to—“ 

“Fuck that,” Harry says, interrupting Malfoy before he can apologise. “That’s so hot.” The thought of Malfoy, so prim and proper, wanking to him (in public, no less!) is such a turn-on. Harry drops the roses on the ground and pulls Malfoy into his arms. 

“ _You’re_ so hot,” he murmurs, and kisses him. There isn’t any fire-breathing dragon this time, but their kiss is still as fiery and desperate. Harry runs his tongue along the seam of Malfoy’s lips, swallowing his groan of lust that goes straight to Harry’s prick. Malfoy’s tongue licks across Harry’s bottom lip, nipping gently at it, and Harry parts his lips, allowing the kiss to deepen. They tilt their heads, pressing their bodies close, and oh, Malfoy is so hard. Malfoy pulls away, but Harry refuses to stop, feathering soft kisses on his jaw and licking his way down his neck. 

“Do you still think about that night at the pub?” Malfoy mutters, throwing his head back to grant Harry access, his words dissolving into a moan of encouragement when Harry sucks hard at his skin, that familiar lemon scent transporting Harry to that day in the prefects’ bathroom, sharing a bath with a naked Malfoy—

His cock throbs. 

“Yeah. Can’t forget,” Harry mumbles between licks and kisses. He trails his hands down Malfoy’s back, like how he did seven years ago. “Think about it all the time. You?” 

“Me too. How you touched me like this.” Malfoy reaches behind and guides Harry’s palms to his arse. Harry groans into his neck as he kneads that gorgeous arse, still as firm and lush as before. “How I touched you like this.” Malfoy frees the bottom of Harry’s shirt from his trousers and trails a heated hand up Harry’s abdomen, fingers grazing the trail of dark hair leading southwards. “Salazar, you’re even fitter now.” 

Malfoy’s words, breathy and erotic, ramp up Harry’s anticipation to boiling point. Thinking of him in bed, stroking himself as he fantasises about Harry… 

“What if I never went to France? What if I stayed?” Malfoy wonders, a tinge of regret in his voice. 

“It’s been years, and time has only made me want you even more.” Harry cradles Malfoy’s flushed face in his hands, his thumbs caressing his cheekbones, and his voice steady and sure. “You fit so perfectly in my arms, and you get me so hard—“ 

Malfoy’s touch descends from Harry’s heaving chest, his hand slipping into his pants and wrapping around Harry’s hot, hard length. Harry swears when Malfoy begins to stroke him from root to tip. Desperation and lust riots through him, and he can only whimper encouragements, rolling his hips as Malfoy, with a look of wonder on his face, releases Harry’s prick from the confines of his clothes and strokes him for a while more, his fingers squeezing the shaft and thumb circling the head. 

“Need to suck you,” Malfoy pleads around a sigh, wetting his lips. 

“Yes, fuck _yes_ —“ 

“But not like this…” Malfoy releases Harry and looks around. He casts a privacy charm, and then points his wand at the ground, rolling away the pebbles and rocks, leaving only damp grass. Malfoy takes off his jacket, and lays it on the ground. “Lie down,” he says, and Harry does so, lying on the jacket. With deft hands, Malfoy strips Harry, tossing his tie and belt on the roses. Harry kicks off his shoes, trousers and pants. When he moves clumsy hands to his shirt buttons, Malfoy takes over. 

“Faster,” Harry demands when Malfoy unbuttons his shirt in an excruciatingly slow manner. 

“Oh no. This isn’t some quick shag in the back of a club,” Malfoy says, with a throaty laugh. He undoes each button as slow as possible. When he’s finally finished, Harry moves to shrug his shirt off, but Malfoy wants him to keep it on. “Look at you,” he murmurs in awe. Grey eyes glimmer as they sweep Harry’s body — Harry’s hair is messy, his lips parted, chest heaving as he pants eagerly in short and shallow breaths. His legs are splayed open, his cock so hard that it rests on his belly. When a breeze gusts across them, his nipples harden, and Malfoy grazes them with a finger. 

Harry’s hips jerk involuntarily. “I’m sensitive there,” he whispers, moaning when Malfoy touches them again.

“Oh?” Malfoy shifts from his kneeling position and lays down on his side beside Harry. His hand glides up and down Harry’s chest, the back of his fingers trailing across his chest hair, and his fingertips rubbing his nipples in a maddeningly slow touch. His hand slides to Harry’s abdomen, before returning to his chest, driving Harry’s anticipation to fever pitch. His heart is beating so fast that he won’t be surprised if Malfoy can feel every thud of his heartbeat under his wandering fingers.

“Beautiful,” Malfoy murmurs. A coy, seductive smirk turns up his luscious lips. “How are you doing tonight?” he asks conversationally, as if he doesn’t have a writhing Harry, trembling with need, in front of him. 

“Hard, horny and desperate. Please suck me, please…” Harry begs. Unable to bear it any longer, he fists his prick, releasing a moan of satisfaction, which breaks off into a frustrated grunt when Malfoy bats his hand away. 

“No,” he says, his voice hard and authoritative. He’s using his teacher voice on Harry, and that’s mad sexy. Malfoy leisurely unloops his tie from his collar, trailing the silky material over Harry’s throbbing cock, triggering an excited gasp from Harry. “You do not touch yourself when I’m with you.” He unbuttons his shirt, his demeanour calm, but the trembling of his fingers reveals his nervousness and eagerness.

With wide eyes, Harry stares longingly at the pale expanse of skin exposed with each button. He reaches out to touch, only for Malfoy to push him away again. Merlin, he should’ve known Malfoy would be such a tease. Just like him, Malfoy leaves his open shirt on, although he’s still wearing his trousers. A possessive gleam enters his eyes, and Harry watches as Malfoy crawls between his legs, his face bathed in moonlight, eyes half-lidded and lips parted. His tongue sweeps slowly across his upper lip, and Harry bucks his hips up, directing Malfoy’s attention to his bobbing erection.

“So impatient,” Malfoy whispers, his breath skimming Harry’s leaking cock. He bows his head, dropping teasing kisses on Harry’s inner thighs. Before Harry can plead for more, Malfoy steadies his hips with his palms, and swallows him down. It’s absolutely exquisite, surrounded by this soft, velvety smoothness that is Malfoy’s warm mouth and questing tongue. 

“Fuck, oh _fuck_ ,” Harry gasps. It’s finally happening, after so many fantasies… Feverish with desire, he flings off his glasses and cards his fingers through his own hair, digging the soles of his feet into the soft earth as he pushes into Malfoy’s mouth. Malfoy swirls his tongue around his shaft, a hand fondling his balls. He pulls off after a while, both hands massaging Harry’s cock, the glide of his palms slick with saliva and pre-come. 

“Don’t stop, Draco, please,” Harry begs, desire and lust swamping him. 

“Say it again. Say my name again,” Malfoy demands. 

“Draco. _Draco_ ,” Harry cries, thrusting into Malfoy’s mouth when he takes him down his throat again. The flat of Malfoy’s tongue circles the crown, the tip of his tongue dipping into his slit, while his hands resume stroking his shaft and cupping his balls. Harry sighs in pleasure; everything feels incredible. Malfoy mutters something around his mouthful of cock, and withdraws.

There’s the clink of a belt buckle, a swish of leather, and Harry props himself on his elbows, his fingers rubbing his nipples as he watches Malfoy undress. “So hard, need to…” Malfoy groans in relief when his prick springs free. 

Harry’s mouth waters. Malfoy’s cock is gorgeous — long and curving slightly to the right. He aches to trace his tongue around it, to fill his entire mouth with it. He licks his lips, swallowing his saliva. They’re now naked, save for their unbuttoned shirts. 

Harry lunges forward, taking Malfoy’s prick in his hand and stroking it. “Wanna suck you, let me…” 

“No. Finish you off first,” Malfoy says, already pushing Harry back down to the ground. 

Harry growls in protest, staring at Malfoy’s cock. There’s no way he can wait until that perfect cock is in his mouth. “Sixty-nine. C’mon, let’s do a sixty-nine, we wanna suck each other too much,” he suggests, his prick stiffening even more at the image of them locked together in a sixty-nine, limbs tangled and heads bobbing. “You done it before?” 

Grey eyes widen, and then dart away. “No,” Malfoy says rather shyly. 

_Fuck, I’m gonna be his first sixty-nine._ “So fucking hot. Get on top.” 

Malfoy scrambles on top of him in a sixty-nine position — Harry is careful to guide Malfoy’s long legs to the correct arrangement; the last time Harry tried this, the other bloke whacked him on the temple with his knee. Malfoy doesn’t even reply to Harry’s “ _alright?”_ before licking Harry’s inner thighs and deep-throating him again. Harry strokes the back of Malfoy’s thighs, holding him still as he slides Malfoy’s cock into his mouth, easing him in. 

Malfoy moans around his prick, and Harry sucks harder. _You’re not the only one who can use his mouth and hands at the same time_. He plays with Malfoy’s balls, teasing the soft skin, while his other hand moves up to palm his arse. Malfoy pulls off briefly to let out a loud, ragged groan of pleasure, and then re-doubles his own sucking efforts. 

Harry’s hands squeeze Malfoy’s arse as he sucks, the weight of Malfoy’s heavy cock gliding along his tongue, hitting the back of his throat. The air is filled with slurping sounds and strangled moans, and soon, Harry’s neck and jaw starts to ache, but he doesn’t stop, too eager to give Malfoy the first sixty-nine of his life. 

A jolt ripples through Malfoy when Harry parts his arse-cheeks and runs a finger down his crease, and Harry’s hips buck when he encounters Malfoy’s hole. Malfoy licks a stripe up Harry’s cock and pulls off. “No, don’t push anything in yet. Not now…” he mumbles, stroking Harry, who lightly drags a finger along his crease again. “That’s fine…” Malfoy sighs, his words drunk with lust, before diving back between Harry’s legs, renewing his sucking and licking with vigour. 

Harry gropes Malfoy’s arse and teases his crease as they blow each other on the shore of the Great Lake, their heads buried in each other’s crotches and moonlight covering their bodies.

“So close, Harry, oh…” Malfoy gasps. He pulls off, heaves his upper body up and plants his palms on the grass. He arches his back, shifting his knees to thrust into Harry’s mouth. He’s crying out Harry’s name, his body shuddering, and Harry quickly gulps his saliva before grabbing Malfoy’s arse, driving his pulsing cock down his throat. Spunk fills Harry’s mouth, and he swallows it, licking Malfoy clean afterwards. Malfoy’s prick slips out of his mouth; Harry’s jaw clicks when he closes it, and he rubs the back of his neck. 

“Did you swallow everything?” A panting Malfoy asks in disbelief.

“Yeah,” Harry rasps, his voice hoarse. “You taste so fuckin’ good.” His cock throbs in urgency, and he pushes his hips up, making his desperation known. 

“Play with my arse,” Malfoy says. He sinks down on his elbows and swallows Harry again, sucking harder and faster, his moans around Harry’s cock spurring his arousal to new heights. 

“Fuck yes,” Harry hisses, stroking Malfoy’s hole with a finger while his other hand resumes squeezing his arse. God, to ease himself into this tight warmth, his prick disappearing into Malfoy’s body… It’s Malfoy on top of him, Malfoy’s lips wrapped around him, Malfoy’s lush arse cupped in his greedy hands and his clenching hole just begging to be fucked—

“Draco, gonna—“ That’s all Harry can manage before he comes so hard, the stars in the night sky blurring, his fingers pressing into Malfoy’s arse-cheeks, his hips thrusting as he shoots his load into Malfoy’s mouth. There’s a faint gasp and a few thick gulps, before Malfoy releases his prick and rolls away. 

Harry’s body goes limp, and he lays there, sated. Malfoy transfigures his shirt into a large blanket, places it beside Harry and lies down on it. A long moment of silence stretches as they bask in the afterglow, gazing up at the stars. 

They turn to each other. Malfoy smiles, revealing his adorable dimples, and Harry grins back, happiness suffusing him. “You going home for Easter?” Harry asks.

“No. Easter holidays are quite short. I’d rather stay and work on my research and school things — exams are coming soon. There are quite a few students staying back too, so as Head of House, I should be around. What about you?”

“Not going back. Gonna stay here with you,” Harry murmurs, nuzzling into Malfoy’s neck.

“Mmm. Two of us in an almost deserted castle for two weeks.” Malfoy says. He brushes his knuckles against Harry’s soft prick, smirking. “Whatever shall we do?”

Harry’s grin widens.


	3. TERM THREE

What do professors do at Hogwarts during holidays?

Harry can’t answer for the others, but he spent it falling in love with Malfoy.

They filled the days doing loads of things: feeding and playing with Charlie’s animals and Pork Chop in the Forest (Harry took great joy in re-enacting Malfoy screaming and running away during their detention in first year); exploring the castle and her many secrets; playing Quidditch and football (he will always remember the sight of a dishevelled Malfoy trying to kick a football, but instead falling on his bum); and introducing Malfoy to new things. It was brilliant, watching his wariness turn into surprised wonder at his first bite of butter chicken from _Cinnamon Kitchen_ , the Indian place in Hogsmeade. 

Harry loves watching Malfoy’s different expressions — his focus when he’s working on a research paper; how open and lovely he looks when he laughs; his contentment and peace when they’re lounging near the Great Lake, with Harry’s head on his lap. 

He just loves watching Malfoy, especially when he’s naked. 

Oh yeah, Harry spent the holidays having sex, losing himself in the addictive whirl of Malfoy, lust and orgasms. It was as if they were reclaiming their boyhood — a youth spent fighting a war — when they fooled around in the castle like a pair of hormonal-driven teenagers. Sure, Malfoy was always busy, with his perpetual mountains of paperwork, research journals and exam questions, but how could he resist Harry? 

One day, Harry pushed away Malfoy’s quills and things, sank to his knees under the library table, and sucked Malfoy so hard that he could hardly manage rational thought, let alone the title of his paper. Another time, Harry turned up for their picnic near the Great Lake wearing only his Speedos. He didn’t even have time to ask about the contents of the picnic basket before Malfoy rushed towards him, yanked his Speedos down and swallowed him down his throat. 

They spent quite some time in the prefects’ bathroom too, with Malfoy in his lap and gripping his shoulders as they rubbed up against each other in the tub. They returned to the Room of Requirement, making good use of the same wingback bed (still scattered with rose petals), indulging in another sixty-nine. 

The castle appeared to encourage them. They were taking an adrenaline-filled risk one afternoon; pushed up against a wall and groping each other senseless in a corridor near the One-Eyed Witch Passage. There were noises coming from approaching students, but before they had the presence of mind to do anything, there was the sensation of a raw egg cracked onto their heads, enveloped by the castle’s Disillusionment charm. They stood, frozen, their wide eyes tracking the students as they walked past, oblivious to the fact that two of their teachers had their pricks out.

Yes, they certainly are very well acquainted with each other’s bodies, but they’ve never gone all the way; it’s clear something is holding Malfoy back. 

Until now. 

Malfoy pulls away from the heated kiss. He sits on the bed and regards Harry for a moment. He hops off the bed, and rifles through his robes. Harry sits up and stares at the trail of discarded clothes on the floor, while palming his cock half-heartedly. They spent the time after dinner in Harry’s room snogging, touching and sucking each other leisurely — today is the last day of Easter holidays, and they want to treasure their time together before school reopens. 

Malfoy retrieves a jar of lube, and returns to Harry. Harry stares at the lube, and then at Malfoy, his heart pounding and his prick stiffening at the implication. “Go slow. It’s been some time,” Malfoy murmurs, his eyelashes fluttering when he presses the jar into Harry’s hands. 

“Why now?” Harry croaks. He twists the jar open. 

“Can’t stop thinking about it,” Malfoy whispers, taking the lid and placing it on the nightstand. “Want you.”

Fuck, Harry isn’t gonna argue with that.

Malfoy lays on the bed, making himself comfortable on Harry’s pillows. His thighs fall apart in invitation. “Slow,” he says, and Harry nods weakly as he coats his fingers. He lies down on his side beside Malfoy, his left hand cupping the back of Malfoy’s head while his other hand slides between his legs, his fingers circling his rim. Malfoy kisses him tenderly, a thumb grazing Harry’s stubble. He moans, the sound resonating between their mouths, when Harry pushes a finger in. 

“So tight,” Harry mumbles, going deeper. He licks Malfoy’s jaw. “How long since you’ve…” 

“Last year. Before school started, during summer hols. More, _more_ —“ 

Harry kisses down his neck, inhaling his lemon scent, and he sinks two fingers in, twisting them in a way that makes Malfoy gasp and spread his legs more. “Before you met me…” 

Malfoy swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he struggles to form the words. “How could I let anyone touch me after I met you again?” he whispers, his eyes shining with affection. He trails his fingertips down Harry’s chest, smiling.

Just like that, Harry falls for him so much more. 

“Me too. I haven’t been with anyone since I saw you again,” he chokes out, emotion thickening in his throat. How can he feel so much for this one person? His heart expanding, he kisses Malfoy’s forehead and prepares him, slow and gentle, until Malfoy rolls his hips faster, pushing back on his fingers for more, something thicker, harder, _deeper_. Sweating with need and anticipation, Harry withdraws his fingers, quickly lubes up and climbs on top of Malfoy. He positions himself, so ready—

_”Looks like I’m just in time for the mounting!”_

Harry squawks and covers Malfoy’s body with his own. He turns to the door; a very pleased Pork Chop is slithering towards them, her head craning in interest and her eyes glowing red with eagerness.

Bloody _fucking_ hell. 

He cannot believe his snake is cock-blocking him. 

Malfoy, bless him, gives Pork Chop a weak wave (she cheerily waves back with her tail) and stares at the ceiling, going redder with every second. 

_“Go on. I’ll be quiet_ ,” she says, beaming with pride. _“It’s finally happening! Should be a good show.”_

And then she settles in her damn basket to watch. 

“Sorry,” Harry says to Malfoy, and then turns to her. “ _Porks, I’m busy.”_ Beneath him, Malfoy’s breath hitches and he clings onto Harry tighter. That would normally grab Harry’s attention, but his priority is to get his snake out.

_“I’ve seen you mount various men. Why is he different?”_

_“It’s our first time, it’s special. Go away, please, I’ll give you all the pork chops you want, just go away!”_

“Harry,” Malfoy whispers into his ear. “So fucking hot when you speak Parseltongue. I love it, fuckin’ love it.” 

Harry glances down, and Malfoy looks absolutely wrecked, his eyes dilated in lust and hot breaths huffing from parted lips. Malfoy bucks his hips up, grinding their leaking pricks together, desperate. “Talk to me like this, and then fuck me. Fuck me hard and good and fast, fill me with your come, don’t make me wait,” he begs, and Harry is so fucking close to losing it whenever Malfoy talks like this, in that posh accent, crumbling composure and dirty words, so unlike his usual self. 

_“All the pork chops I can eat?”_ Pork Chop asks, gleeful.

 _“Yeah_ ,” Harry says. Even though his words are meant for her, he gazes at Malfoy, who groans and strokes his prick, muttering pleas. _“Get out, because I’m gonna have the best and loudest sex of my life.”_

He doesn’t wait for her to leave, but he knows she will — she knows when to listen. He licks the shell of Malfoy’s ear, aligning their bodies together. “What d’you want me to say?” he whispers, sucking on Malfoy’s earlobe. “Tell you how much I can’t wait to sink this hard cock in you and fuck you into the mattress ‘til you can’t walk properly tomorrow, on the first day of school? Tell you how I’ve waited ages to have you like this, mine to play with, mine to fuck all night long?” 

“Yes, so hot, need you, oh fuck,” Malfoy gasps when Harry’s palm glides smoothly up his prick, before he twists his wrist at the head, exactly how he likes it. Merlin, it’s a fucking treat seeing Malfoy like this, an out-of-control, begging mess beneath him, turned on beyond belief. Harry kisses behind Malfoy’s ear and prepares to seduce him in Parseltongue—

He stops, his mind drawing a blank and his hand pausing on Malfoy’s prick. 

Harry hasn’t done this in Parseltongue before, and he’s never used the language with anyone else besides Pork Chop. He’s never rattled off Parseltongue by himself — it’s always a conversation. He opens his mouth, and then closes it. 

“Stop teasing…” Malfoy says, pulling Harry closer, the heat of his body radiating on Harry’s skin. “Tell me how much you want me, talk to me…” 

Harry can’t back out now. The closest thing he can recite with the least stuttering is… 

_“Mix mustard with honey in a bowl, and coat the pork chops with the sauce.”_

“Don’t stop, so hot, so fucking hot,” Malfoy murmurs, moaning when Harry resumes stroking him. “So damn sexy—“

Bloody hell. 

Harry can’t believe Malfoy’s getting off on a recipe for honey mustard pork chops, one of Pork Chop’s favourite dishes. She would often cook with him, and this is Harry’s go-to recipe when she is feeling down.

Harry swallows in disbelief and arousal, continuing. _“Heat the pan, place the chops in and cook for six minutes on each side. In another pan, cook the melted butter, apples, onions and potatoes together.”_

Malfoy groans into Harry’s neck and pulls Harry’s arse down to rub their cocks together. Oh, the friction, that fucking sweet friction… Harry continues, stammering when Malfoy tangles his fingers in Harry’s hair and ruts faster. _“Make peppercorn sauce… heat butter and cook it with shallots, peppercorns and cider. Boil, add double cream and cook until thick.”_

“Fuck me, fuck me now,” Malfoy demands, and it’s a good thing too, ‘cause Harry is so horny and out of his mind he can hardly remember the next step. He pushes Malfoy’s knees up to his shoulders, and then positions himself. It’s heaven, absolute heaven as he eases slowly into that tight warmth. He gasps Malfoy’s first name, and Malfoy clenches, bearing down on him. Harry pauses, letting him relax into the intrusion, and when he cants his hips up in encouragement, Harry pushes in gently until he’s fully in. 

“Alright?” he says, supporting himself by resting his palms on either side of Malfoy’s head and steadying his knees on the bed. He shifts Malfoy’s legs until the backs of his knees rest on Harry’s shoulders. His prick slips out slightly as he makes Malfoy comfortable, and he quickly eases in, desperate for every inch to be engulfed in Malfoy’s intoxicating heat. 

“Perfect. Like I knew it’d be,” Malfoy manages through harsh pants. “So thick. So full. So _good.”_

Harry begins to strike up a rhythm with shallow thrusts. Malfoy feels wonderful, exquisite around him, and he still can’t believe it’s Malfoy. Years of lust, desire and pent-up sexual tension, and he’s in bed with Malfoy, blond hair on his pillows, pale limbs splayed out like this, _fucking him_ — 

“Oh god, I’m doing Draco Malfoy. I’m doing you,” Harry croaks, his strokes deeper and faster as the realisation finally sinks in, that he’s not in some wet dream. This is real, he’s _balls-fucking-deep in Draco Malfoy._

“As eloquent as ever,” Malfoy says, his smirk melting into an expression of pure bliss when Harry hits that sweet spot inside him. “I could say the same thing,” he mumbles, struggling to string two words together when Harry hits it again. “I’m doing Harry Potter, sexy as fuck, fit as hell, _ah, fuck yes,_ Saviour, Seeker of World Cup team.” 

Harry wants to come up with a snarky reply, but his brain is too swamped in pleasure and ecstasy to work.

“More fucking, less talking,” Malfoy orders. Harry is more than happy to comply. He fucks him in earnest, his strokes long, deep and sure. He’s close, he’s embarrassingly close, he has to last, Christ, he’s not eighteen anymore, _he has to fucking last—_

—but how can he, when he’s moving on top of Malfoy like this? Malfoy is an absolute feast to the senses; the steady flush creeping up his shoulders and neck, grabbing his own prick and balls to give Harry an unobstructed view of Harry fucking into him. Fuck, he’s wanking now, a hand fisting up and down his shaft, strands of pre-come leaking on his stomach, his other hand gripping the pillow. Grey eyes meet Harry's, as if searing this scene into his memory. When Harry hits Malfoy’s prostate, he tilts his head back, exposing the pale column of his gulping throat and cries out, every exhale a moan of bliss. His sounds, oh fuck, sighing Harry’s name like he never wants this to end, Malfoy’s soft skin under his fingertips, and Harry loves how wild Malfoy is in bed, when he’s always so buttoned-up and restrained. Harry pumps his hips, thrusting hard and fast into him, warm, tight and addictive—

Harry isn’t gonna last. 

“Fuck, Draco!” he shouts and releases a resigned sob, throwing his head back as his orgasm seizes him, so fucking intense. Starbursts of pleasure burst across his skin as he pulses deep into Malfoy, his hands fisted into the sheets as he continues to thrust weakly inside him. He moves one hand to the base of his cock, squeezing, intent on slicking Malfoy thoroughly with his come, Merlin, just the thought of that…

Malfoy stops wanking. He lifts his head from the pillow, glancing down between them. “Did you just…“ 

“Sorry, too hot, couldn’t take it anymore. Come for me, c’mon…” Harry mutters, pulling out and nudging Malfoy’s hand away. He wanks Malfoy, hard and fast until Malfoy becomes an incoherent mess, his back arching off the bed and his heels digging into the mattress. Harry nuzzles his cheek and hisses into his ear, and finally, Malfoy tenses, the tendons on his neck standing and his abdominal muscles clenching. He’s close, so close—

_“To serve, arrange the apples and potatoes around the pork chops and drizzle with sauce.”_

“Harry!” Malfoy cries, clinging onto him as he spurts between their bodies. Harry massages him throughout, a satisfied, albeit tired, grin on his lips as he watches Malfoy come completely undone. 

“That was… quick,” Malfoy says delicately, after he catches his breath.

Harry looks away in embarrassment, steeling himself for a round of mocking. “I always last longer, I swear, I just… you’re so hot.” 

Malfoy smirks. “I reckon I should be flattered.”

“Yeah, you should.” 

“Doesn’t mean it wasn’t good, though. The Parseltongue was especially hot.” 

Fuck, Malfoy can never know he just had an orgasm to a pork chop recipe. 

“Scarhead,” Malfoy whispers affectionately, rolling onto his side to face Harry. 

Harry grins, grabbing his bum. “Ferret.” 

“Mmm.” Malfoy licks his lips, caressing Harry’s soft prick. “Sex god.”

“Heh.” Harry glows at the praise. “I could say the same about you.” 

Malfoy chuckles, winks and then turns away. He pads over to Harry’s bathroom for his usual shower. Harry isn't especially particular — a quick wipe-down and a decent Cleaning charm is enough (which is what he does now), but Malfoy always prefers a quick shower. Harry isn't complaining, he loves how Malfoy smells of his own soap after he uses his bath. 

Harry lazes in bed, grinning as he replays sex with Malfoy in vivid detail. After a while, he gets up and points his wand at his bed — charming the sheets clean, plumping the pillows and duvet, and warming it — wanting to make it as welcoming as possible. Sometimes Malfoy stays, other times he returns to his own room, but tonight, Harry really wants him to stay. 

Malfoy emerges soon after, his skin flushed a pleasant pink from the heat of the shower and a towel wrapped around his hips. He glances at Harry, then at his clothes scattered on the floor, and the door. "Stay. Please?” Harry encourages, patting the empty space beside him in bed. Relief flashes across Malfoy's features. He drops the towel (Harry sends an admiring gaze at his arse), pulls on his pants and slips into bed. 

They look at each other for a moment, and Harry leans into Malfoy's touch when he runs the back of his knuckles along Harry's stubble on his jaw. Malfoy likes him scruffy, so he grew his stubble out during hols, although he prefers to be clean-shaven during term. 

"If we're at my flat, I'd make you breakfast the morning after," Harry offers. 

Malfoy frowns briefly. Harry knows the reason behind that, can almost hear Malfoy's thoughts — _How many blokes have you cooked breakfast for, then?_ He doesn't want to pursue it, not right now. He doesn't want them to argue about it again. 

"I like buttermilk pancakes," Malfoy says. 

“I can do that, although I do a mean fry-up," Harry replies, slanting his face to kiss the inside of Malfoy's wrist. 

Malfoy removes his hand and looks down at the duvet. An uncertain, vulnerable look settles on his features. "Has anything changed after we've..." 

Harry remembers Malfoy's words — _"I'm not a challenge, not a Quidditch World Cup that you can win, and my arse is not a prize to be obtained. What if we shag? You'll toss me over for the next bloke eager enough, won't you?"_

"No. Nothing's changed," Harry says, even though his heart knows otherwise. _I've fallen for you even more, but I don't want to say it, because you're not there yet and I don't want to scare you._ "I'm not going anywhere," he says instead, and he'll repeat that again until he's whittled down Malfoy's insecurities and doubts about Harry. 

"Thank you," Malfoy murmurs, giving Harry a chaste kiss on the cheek and turning away. Harry can't help but feel disappointed — Malfoy doesn’t like cuddling, needing his space after sex (which is completely in line with his personality), unlike Harry, who loves snuggling after shagging. He likes holding someone cherished close to him, showing how much he means to Harry with his touch.

This time, however, Malfoy squeezes his hand, linking their fingers together, and even though he's still on his side of the bed, it's amazing, how just by this sweet and simple gesture, Harry's heart soars like a bird taking flight. He aches to fold Malfoy up in his arms, kiss his worries away, sweeping them away in the waves of Harry's affection and tenderness, but it's too soon. He's always the one to fall harder and faster in his relationships, and it's no different now. The last thing he wants is to spook Malfoy; he never ever wants a repeat of seven years ago, when his owls to Malfoy returned unopened. 

_I'll chase you wherever you go — to France, to the ends of the damn world, if I have to. I found you again, and I'm not letting you go._

* * *

Draco waits for the honeymoon period to lose its lustre. A small voice of doom within him counts down to the day when Potter will tire of him. He’s very realistic about these things. He knows how it all begins; romances as sweet as chocolates and red roses, yet as lightweight and fleeting as a summer fling. Taking their clashing personalities into account, and the fact that they’re practically living in each other’s pockets, a part of him expects it won’t be long before their passion and lust is tempered by familiarity and routine. 

But it doesn't happen.

It’s early June, exam period, and although Draco is especially busy with monitoring exams, marking and writing notes for Robards about the candidates for the Auror partnership, he still can’t wait to be with Potter, to see him, to touch and kiss him. Salazar, he has sex on the brain, like a seventeen-year-old, and it doesn’t help when Potter adjusts the blindfold on Draco’s eyes and leans in close to whisper, his husky and playful voice sending thrills down Draco’s spine. “Wanna know what I got for your birthday?” He places his palms on Draco’s shoulders, propelling him onwards. 

They’re outside, and somewhere high in the castle, going by the stairs that Potter made him climb, and the cool night breeze coasting across his skin. Draco nods, his heart beating fast with anticipation and excitement. When Potter removes the blindfold, Draco opens his eyes, eager to absorb his surroundings, a grin ready on his lips, preparing to be pleasantly surprised—

His smile freezes and slides off his face. 

_The Astronomy Tower._

He stares, his eyes turning blank, a slow and pressing despair swamping his mind as he’s sucked into that hateful vortex of memories during his worst year at Hogwarts. There is a reason why he has avoided this place. This is the vilest ghost he has yet to exorcise upon his return as a teacher, the events of this very night influencing his decision to teach Defence. Right there on the floorboards was where he raised his wand to Dumbledore and showed him his Dark Mark, where he confessed his wrongdoings, his murderous plot, inadvertently hurting others, including Potter’s best friend— 

“Why would you…” Draco mutters, staring at the location where Dumbledore died. Merlin, he can still see it so perfectly in his mind’s eye; Dumbledore’s limp body falling off the Tower, bathed in the cruel green light of the Dark Mark, which coiled and shimmered in the night sky right above his tumbling body.

His horror mutating into fury and disbelief, Draco rounds on Potter. “Is this your idea of a joke?” he snaps. He advances towards Potter, his fists clenched and his words trembling with rage and shame. “I haven’t been here in years, and you bring me here on my birthday. You know what happened!” He pauses. Does Potter know? Maybe he doesn’t—

“Yeah, I watched as you…” Potter says in a small voice, gesturing vaguely to where Draco confronted Dumbledore. “I was with Dumbledore; I was invisible and he cast a body-bind on me.” He frowns. “You haven’t been here in _years?”_

 _Potter saw everything?_ Disgrace and guilt, magnified at the knowledge of Potter seeing him at his lowest and most despicable, storms through Draco. Driven by rage and self-disgust, he shoves Potter away and descends the stairs, ignoring his plaintive cry. Draco hurries out of the Tower, schooling his expression when he runs into students. He walks, fast and edgy, towards the dungeons, breathing heavily and biting hard on his lower lip to control his emotions. 

With every step, his calm and composure returns. Eventually, he slows down, his rational side chiming in to oust his heated emotions. _He didn’t do it to hurt me. I didn’t tell him I’ve never returned to the Tower. But he saw what happened, and he still fancies me—_

Suddenly, the sconces in front of him extinguish, eliciting shocked gasps from nearby students and plunging the path ahead in darkness. Draco stops, his eyes wide as he stands, half-shadowed in darkness and in light. 

Only his way back is lit up. 

A gentle and comforting breeze envelops him, rich with centuries-old magic that tingles on his fingertips, raising the hairs on his neck. It’s as if the magic is rising from the floor, seeping through the walls, surging from the very foundation of the castle. 

_Let it go. Your penance to this school is more than enough._

And in that rush of magic, he experiences forgiveness. 

Redemption. 

He stays very still for a moment. 

And then, he turns around. 

He will not let his past mistakes cloud the true significance of what, or who, is important to him.

“Harry,” he murmurs. 

He takes a step forward. 

Firelight flares to life behind him, but he doesn’t want to run away anymore. He knows where he ought to be, what he should do—

“Harry,” he repeats, louder. 

Draco breaks into a run, returning the way he came from, dashing up the stairs leading to the Astronomy Tower. Relief overwhelms him when he sees Potter sitting on the stargazing steps, sandwiched between two telescopes. His shoulders are slumped and his head is in his hands, glasses tossed to the side, cutting a pitiful, dejected figure. When Draco approaches, he looks up, blinks, and then puts his glasses on.

“I’m sorry, please don’t run away again. I’m sorry,” he says at once, looking utterly miserable and lost. “I should’ve known, I should’ve…” he trails off when Draco drops to his knees in front of him and clasps his hands. 

“Why did you bring me here?” Draco asks, kissing Potter’s fingers. 

“Because this is the most romantic place in the castle, with the best view of the stars.” Potter nods at a corner — a table, lit up with tea candles, has enough food for two. There is another smaller table nearby with a bucket of chilling wine and a small cake. The surrounding barricades of the Tower is decorated with silver, glowing fairy lights and a scattering of rose petals.

Draco’s heart clenches at the intimate setting — he was so consumed by the past that he completely overlooked the present.

“I know what you did here. I want to replace your bad memories with new ones, better ones. To show you how much it means to me that we’ve come such a long way, from then…” Potter’s hands tighten on his. “To here,” he adds, those two words a brittle whisper.

_Eleven years old. Madam Malkin’s. The tinkle of a bell, admitting a small boy with messy black hair and wide green eyes behind dirty glasses, wearing oversized clothes and looking ridiculously surprised at everything, as if it’s his first time seeing knitting needles click by themselves or stacks of cloth flying in the air._

_“Hullo. Hogwarts too?”_

“Thank you.” Draco kisses Potter’s wrist. He gets up, tugging Potter to the food. Green eyes look at him warily, before flicking away when they take their seats. Draco gives Potter a reassuring smile, covering his hand with his own on the table. His heart lifts when Potter returns his smile tentatively, finally relaxing. 

The twinkling stars shine down on them, and the full moon hangs in the velvet night sky. The view from the Tower is truly romantic, providing an encompassing panorama of the sky, the Great Lake and the grounds beyond.

“Didn’t think you could be this romantic,” Draco teases as they tuck into his favourite dishes. 

Potter laughs. “I aim to surprise.” 

Dinner is a blur of good food, wine, scrumptious chocolate cake made sweeter by their light conversation, heated looks and soft touches across the table. When they’re finished, Draco waves his wand, sending the dishes back to the kitchens. They return to the telescopes, and Draco teaches Potter about the constellations, singling them out and explaining the stories behind their names. Draco gazes at the skies, happiness circulating lazily in his body like a drug. “Beautiful, aren’t they?”

“Yeah. Really beautiful,” Potter whispers, and Draco turns at the dreamy note in his voice. 

Potter isn’t looking at the stars anymore. 

Desire swells in Draco, and he sweeps Potter up in a fond kiss. Potter sighs into the kiss, and it soon takes a more fervent turn, with Potter’s arms wrapped around Draco’s neck and Draco feeling him up under his shirt. Their tongues lick into each other’s mouths, running across each other’s lips. 

“Want you. Need you now, so bad,” Potter mumbles, dropping his head to press a necklace of kisses around the base of Draco’s throat. “Not here. In bed, wanna take my time. It’s your birthday, I’ll do whatever you want…” 

His words send a jolt of lust straight to Draco’s half-hard cock. Without another word, they get up and hurry towards Potter’s room, which is so damn far— 

They pass by the Great Hall, and Draco stops in front of the closed doors of the Hall. He looks around. The corridors are deserted, and they didn’t run into anyone; it’s way after curfew. Does he dare? He’s had so many fantasies about shagging in the Great Hall.

“Did you forget something?” Potter asks, tugging on his hand. “If not, let’s go, c’mon—“ 

“Fuck me here,” Draco says, feeling utterly scandalised the moment the words are out. He’s a professor here, for Merlin’s sake! But the image of Potter having him here, fulfilling his wildest dreams is so tempting.

“What?” Potter says, shocked. 

“Fuck me here. You did say it’s my birthday, yes?” Without waiting for an answer, Draco sneaks another furtive look around them, waves the doors of the Hall open, and drags Potter inside. The doors creak as they close, and Draco only has time to flick his wand at a few sconces near the teachers’ table to set them alight before Potter spins him into his arms.

“You kinky bastard,” he murmurs, amazed, and then kisses Draco deeply. 

“Don’t pretend you don’t like the idea,” Draco says between kisses. He smirks as he sucks on Potter’s earlobe, whispering, “I’m gonna ride you on Minerva’s chair.”

“Oh, fuck.” Potter presses the heel of his palm against his cock. “That’s so wrong, but so hot.”

They snog and grope their way up to the teachers’ table, leaving a trail of discarded clothes behind them. Draco flashes a predatory grin when he roughly pushes Potter into Minerva’s chair. He climbs into Potter’s lap and straddles him, his hands holding the back of the chair and his hips making slow, rolling motions as he rubs their pricks together. Potter moans into Draco’s neck, his hands kneading Draco’s arse. They grind against each other, hot, hard and heavy, the slick slide of their bodies driving their lust to new heights. 

“Hurry, prep me, can’t wait—“ 

Potter mutters a spell, conjuring lube on his hand. He reaches behind Draco’s balls. Draco stands up, and bracing his hands on Potter’s shoulders, he eagerly sinks down on one of Potter’s fingers.

“Fuck, you’re eager tonight,” Potter whispers, his eyes wide as Draco fucks himself on his finger. 

“Haven’t had you in so long, been so busy with exams. More,” he demands. Soon, he’s riding Potter’s fingers, stretching himself wide. When he’s ready, they shift in Minerva’s chair. Potter leans back and opens his legs, his leaking cock so hard and perfect, and Draco’s arse clenches at the prospect of fucking himself on that gorgeous prick. He wriggles his hips forward, trying to get into a good position to ride Potter, but—

“Handles in the way,” he snarls, annoyed. His thighs are too thick to slot underneath the handles of the chair, but if he drapes his legs on top, he can’t ride Potter properly. 

“Maybe you can turn around?” Potter suggests. 

They quickly scramble into the new position — Potter scooting forward until his bum is near the edge of the seat, and they’re both facing the House tables, with Draco in front of him. Potter rests his hands on Draco’s waist to guide him down on his prick. Draco lowers his hips, moaning when the head of Potter’s prick catches on his rim, before his entire length slides inside in one smooth, sweet stroke.

Potter swears, his hands caressing Draco’s thighs, when Draco begins to ride him, slow at first, but it’s not long before Draco is crying out and bouncing up and down Potter’s cock, his hands grabbing on the edge of the table for balance. It’s so deliriously hot, riding Potter as he stares at the empty House tables; Merlin, in seven hours this place will be full of students, and no one would ever know they shagged right here, in the Headmistress’s chair. A part of him wants wizarding Britain to know that Harry Potter is taken. He belongs to Draco, and no one else.

“You’re mine, Harry. You’re _mine._ No one else can make you feel so good, yes?”

Potter sits up, pulling Draco closer and kissing his shoulder as he gasps the words into his skin, “I’m yours. You want everyone to see, want them all to know, _Professor Malfoy—“_

Salazar, he loves it whenever Potter murmurs his title in his deep, seductive voice. With each push of his hips, Potter thrusts up, trying to fuck him proper. Draco can’t bear it anymore, this is brilliant, but he aches to be fucked until he loses his mind. “Get up,” he orders. “Bend me over the table and plow me hard.” 

“Fuck, yes,” Potter slurs, lust clouding his words. He obeys, fucking Draco into an absolute mess over the table. Draco presses his cheek against the table, moaning Potter’s name into the wood, his hands clenching on the edge as Potter pounds into him. Potter’s hands are everywhere — smacking Draco’s arse, squeezing his hips, sliding up his back, gripping his shoulders tight. Draco reaches a hand behind, grabbing the back of Potter’s thigh and urging him on, closer, faster, _harder_. Potter is a wonderful fuck; raw and primal, his harsh pants and sharp cries accompanying gasps of Draco’s name, like he’s a _god_. This is what Draco loves, having Potter’s attention like this, worshipful, intense and incredible. The air is heavy with their groans and the filthy sound of slapping flesh. Draco slams a fist on the table, crying out loud when Potter hits his prostate again, fast and furious—

It’s much too fast, fuck, it’s clear Potter is going to come very soon, but Draco wants it to last. “Don’t stop, more, please, don’t stop,” he begs, but wails in frustration when Potter releases an incoherent sob, pulls out, rubs his prick along Draco’s crease and comes on his arse and lower back, his orgasm so intense that spunk hits his shoulder blades. 

Draco’s body sags briefly, but he quickly wanks as Potter catches his breath. Why did he finish so quickly? His stamina is usually amazing, so why— 

“No, stop. Stop,” Potter says, pushing Draco’s hand away and turning him around. “You’re gonna come only when I’m in you again. Still so horny and desperate for you. Give me a while, yeah?”

Draco glances at Potter’s softening prick; he must be fucked out of his brain. He can’t mean… “Let’s have another go tomorrow morning. Let me come—“ 

“No,” Potter insists. “Need to lay you out, have a good look. I can go again soon, I know.” He picks up his shirt, wipes Draco’s back, and leads him to the Slytherin table, which is nearest to the windows and sconces. Potter motions for him to sit on the edge of the table. He steps into the space between Draco’s thighs and kisses him. After a moment, he pulls away, looking more composed. “It’s been so long since we’ve shagged, that’s why it was quick.” He kisses Draco’s forehead. “But it’s your birthday, I wanna make it really good for you. I can go again soon, just wait for a bit.”

Draco stares at him in disbelief. They aren’t eighteen anymore, so it’s rather flattering to think that he can make Potter get it up again for another round so soon. Draco smirks slyly. “Then I should get you ready, yes?” He strokes Potter, slow and sure. One hand rubs his shaft, his thumb circling the crown, while the other fondles his balls. “Feels so empty without you in me,” Draco whispers, pouting in the way that drives Potter wild. He increases the speed of his strokes. “Look at me,” he says, leaning back to draw Potter’s attention to his own leaking prick. 

Potter groans at the sight. 

“Want you so badly,” Draco murmurs, eyeing Potter’s stiffening cock. With a wicked gleam in his eyes and his hands still wanking Potter, he moves closer and licks Potter’s left nipple — he’s always so sensitive here, it’s like a highway to his arousal. 

“Yes, Draco, _yes_ ,” Potter sighs, cupping the back of Draco’s head and urging him on when Draco takes it into his mouth, sucking and licking. When Potter guides him to the other, he follows, dividing his attention between laving both nipples. He slicks Potter’s length with pre-come, popping his fingers briefly into his mouth and sucking on them, making sure to hollow his cheeks. He returns to wanking Potter and teasing his nipples. He kisses his way up Potter’s neck, whispering every explicit thought in his mind — Potter loves his dirty talk. 

Soon, he is rewarded with Potter’s throbbing hard cock. “Perfect,” Draco praises. He lays down on the table, draws his legs up and pulls his knees back towards his shoulders, baring himself. 

Potter laughs, husky and low, half-lidded green eyes intense with lust and desire. “I just came, which means I can last longer,” he says, his cock brushing Draco’s arse as he positions himself. “Much, _much_ longer.” 

Anticipation roars in Draco’s blood, sweeping through him like a liquid inferno. He arches an eyebrow at Potter, issuing a challenge. When Potter finally pushes in, sheathing himself fully in one smooth, sure glide, Draco’s eyelids flutter, his eyes rolling into the back of his head and Potter’s name on an exhale. There’s none of that urgent, hard fucking minutes ago — Potter thrusts into him leisurely and slowly, drawing sighs and soft moans from Draco rather than cries and pants. Gradually, Draco lets go of his legs, resting his arms on the flat of the table. He closes his eyes, floating on a cloud of heavenly pleasure as Potter rocks into him. He wants to stay like this, spread open for Potter, his body lost in carnal bliss with each slide of Potter’s thick, hard cock, touching him like he’s the only one with the key to his arousal, holding him like he’s never going to let him go—

“Beautiful,” Potter whispers, his voice brimming with emotion. 

Draco opens his eyes. Potter takes hold of his legs, rests the back of his calves on his own shoulders, and kisses Draco’s ankle. Potter is bathed in moonlight and the orange firelight of the sconces dances across his features, gleaming off his earrings. He gazes at Draco, and this time, it’s not his thrusts that knock the breath out of Draco, but the fond affection shining in his eyes and the tender smile curving his lips.

Draco wants to say that Potter is the most gorgeous bloke he’s ever been with, but his words are swallowed by a moan when Potter presses on his prostate again, sending tremors of pleasure up his spine and prick. He is consumed with an overwhelming urge to hold Potter, to tell him that he isn’t running away anymore—

He must’ve said something, because Potter lifts Draco’s legs off his shoulders, spreading them wide to grant him space to lean down on top of him. Merlin, he loves the veins threading down the inside of Potter’s elbows, forearms and the back of his hands. Draco wraps his legs around him, digging the soles of his feet into Potter’s lower back as his arms wind around Potter’s neck and shoulders. He moves above him, kissing Draco’s neck and face as his undulating hips continue their rhythm, his thrusts seductive and sensual, sweet and slow.

Time loses all meaning and significance when Potter stays in the circle of Draco’s arms, pushing gently into him. It’s as if they’re the only ones in the world. Draco swallows thickly, his heart expanding with emotion as he stares into the deep emerald of Potter’s eyes. “Want to come, only for you,” he whispers. Potter answers with a soft _yes_ murmured with a smile.

He thrusts, harder and faster, each stroke determined to hit Draco’s prostate, pulling his orgasm nearer to the surface. Draco gasps, his hands reaching above his head to clench the sides of the table. When Draco is close, Potter presses their chests together, not an inch of space between their bodies when he drives into him even deeper. He embraces Draco protectively, his elbows on the table and his hands cradling the back of Draco’s neck. 

“Come for me, Draco,” he whispers when the head of his cock nudges Draco’s prostate. It’s amazing how Draco’s body obeys his demand — he comes between their abdomens, crying out Potter’s name. Potter holds him close throughout, murmuring sweet things into his hair. Never has Draco felt so cosseted, so cared for, so cherished, in anyone’s arms before. 

“I want you to… please…” Draco mumbles through the aftershocks of leftover pleasure trembling in him. 

“Yeah?” Potter says, his breath hitching. He speeds up, fucking into Draco harder and faster, quickly matching the intensity of their coupling at the teachers’ table. “Love how you look, how you sound, so wild, out of control, love how you feel, so fucking good, love how you…” Potter babbles, his head thrown back and his palms braced on the table. He pumps his hips steadily, his cock slamming in and out, as he chases his orgasm. He stares at Draco with wide eyes, fuck, he’s so close—

Draco nods in encouragement, running his hands along Potter’s chest and neck. “Come in me, Harry. So beautiful, all mine, all I’ve ever wanted.” 

“Draco, I… I—“ Potter pushes in deep, gasping when Draco turns his head and kisses his wrist. “I love you.” 

_What?_

Draco looks at him, his eyes round with shock, not believing his ears. Potter pulses inside him, releasing moan after broken moan as he comes in Draco, who holds him close, his mind spinning at those words. 

_What did he say? He couldn’t have… No, he said it because of the sex. Anytime now, he’s going to say he doesn’t mean it._

"I love you," Potter repeats, kissing the words into Draco’s skin. 

_Oh._

They stare at each other for a long moment, breathing in shallow, furious synchronisation, Potter still in him. Speechless, Draco slowly props himself up on his elbows. Potter straightens up, pulling out gently. He ruffles his hair and wipes the sweat off his face.

Only his mother and Pansy (in an entirely platonic manner, of course) has said those three words to Draco. _Say something, you fool!_ "Harry, I..." he mumbles haltingly, sitting up. He holds Potter’s hand, tugging him close until he's standing in the space between Draco's thighs. "I..." 

"It's alright. I know it's too fast for you, but… but I do. I'll wait for you to say it back,” Potter says, a hopeful smile on his face. “I’ll wait, and it'll be one of the happiest days of my life." 

"But you can't wait. You’re so impatient." 

"I can wait for this." 

Overwhelmed, Draco looks down at Potter's Magpies tattoo above his left hipbone. He traces a finger along the date of the World Cup tournament. 

"Shall I put today's date here?" Potter smiles, pointing to his other hip. "The day I told you I love you?" 

Draco hesitates, his finger pausing on Potter's skin and his eyes still on the ink. "Tattoos are permanent. If you do that, it means we're permanent, and I don't know—" He looks up when Potter steps away. 

"What? We won’t last? D’you think I'll regret getting a tattoo about you?" he says, recoiling as if Draco's words are a slap to his face. "After what I said to you..." 

Draco wishes at once that he could take it back. His arms feel empty without Potter, and panic seizes him when Potter storms to the teachers' table where their clothes are. "No, Harry, wait!" Draco hurries after him, ignoring the soreness in his arse. 

Potter pulls his shirt on, and snaps, hurt and angry. "I don't say that to everyone I've slept with. And since we’re on the topic, it sucks, it fucking _sucks_ when I compliment you and you brush it away, saying things like _oh, I bet that's what you tell all the blokes_. No, you arse! Half of the things I say to you, I've never said to anyone else, or at the very most, just one or two other people, alright?" He looks around, moving away. “Where are my damn jeans?” 

Draco snatches his clothes up, quickly wears them, and runs after Potter. "Harry, please."

The lovely mood of Draco’s birthday has evaporated, and they’re now left floundering in this fog of doubt and frustration. They have had similar arguments before, when Potter received a casual letter from a London-based ex asking about his plans for Easter hols. 

_"It's just a letter, Christ, Malfoy, we're still friends!"_

_"How the hell are you still friends with your damn exes? There's Wood, and now this bloke. They still want to shag you, don’t they?"_

They had such a big row; they didn’t talk to each other for three days. 

"Think of it from my point of view," Draco pleads, tugging away the jeans in Potter’s hands. "You're one of the most eligible bachelors in wizarding Britain. You can have anyone you want. You’ve been kept away in this castle for most of the year, and like what you said before, I'm the most decent-looking bloke around. In two weeks, I'll return to France, and you'll go back to London, back to—" 

"Back to what? My partying and sleeping around?" Potter says, shaking away Draco’s placating hand. "Let’s get this straight, I'm not gonna stop going to clubs and bars just 'cause I'm with you. Just because you're unnecessarily jealous and insecure about shit — I haven't done anything to deserve this, and yeah, I'm not afraid to call you out when you're being unreasonable. I'm still gonna get papped like hell when I get back, and you will see photographs of me in the clubs." 

Hurt cuts through Draco, and he shakes his head, trying to chase away the memories of tabloids showing Potter with someone else, or worse, sneaking out of some bloke's house. He hates how right Potter is, hates how silly his own insecurities are, because nothing has happened for him to doubt Potter like this. The thought of losing Potter brings out the worst of him, and it doesn’t help that he’s used to having an eye on the exit sign in every relationship. 

Potter's voice gentles. "But I won't be leaving anyone's flat at night." He moves nearer to Draco, looking into grey, troubled eyes. "When I say you're the only one, I mean it. We have to deal with this. I don't want this to be a problem we sweep under the rug.” He reaches out, interlacing their fingers, and Draco holds on tight. “I'm not gonna hide you away like some dirty little secret. No, I'm not ashamed of you, far from that. I'll tell everyone I'm taken already, taken by a drop-dead gorgeous blond who is more than I can handle, who is too damn jealous for his own good." A faint smile softens the sting of his words. "Stay with me in London at the start of summer hols. Don't go back to France yet. Let the media take photos of us, show the whole world we're together." 

A weight eases from Draco's heart. "I'm scared, because I..." Unable to say this to Potter’s face, he buries his head into the crook of Potter’s neck, murmuring the words into his collarbone. "I want this so badly. I want to be with you. If you ever get a tattoo with today’s date, I want you to look at it with love, and not regret and anger. I want it to last. I'm sorry for being unreasonable, but I'm scared. So damn scared." 

Potter hushes him. "I'm scared too, silly. I feel so strongly for you, and I…” He sighs. “Don't run away again, if things get difficult. Don't leave me like how you did seven years ago, wondering and worrying about you." He threads his fingers into Draco’s hair. "Is it selfish of me to want to keep you all to myself for summer, shelter you from everyone else, even your mother and Parkinson?" he asks, taking Draco's hand and kissing each knuckle tenderly. 

"Then I must be selfish too, because I want you all to myself. What if you don't return to Hogwarts next year? What if you find someone out there, in the city who is more interesting than me?" 

Potter snorts in disbelief. "More interesting than you? For years, ever since we were eleven, you've held my attention, you prat. We're twenty-eight, and you still intrigue me like no other. You are a challenge that I’ll never get tired of, don't you get it?" He kisses the top of Draco’s head. "It's scary sometimes, being with someone who means so much. Giving him your heart and your faith, and then letting go and falling."

_Maybe, just maybe, Potter will catch me when I fall._

Draco swallows the emotion in his throat, and his voice shakes when he whispers, "What am I going to do with you, Harry?" 

The answer comes at once. "Keep me around. Let me stay. Please." 

_I'll keep you forever. Like this, in my arms._

"Come back to mine?" Draco offers, kissing Potter’s cheek. “I want to hold you tonight.” He longs to embrace him like what Potter does to him during some mornings, when they trade sighs for kisses and whispers for touches.

"You don't cuddle," Potter says, surprised. 

"I could. For you, I could," Draco says, happiness playing a symphony in his heart when a smile, as bright and hopeful as summer, settles on Potter’s face. 

"Happy birthday, Draco," he says.

They exchange soppy grins for a moment, and then Potter grabs his jeans. 

"Harry, I..." Draco says. 

"Yeah?" 

"When I say it back to you, it'll be one of the happiest days of my life too."

Potter's ensuing kiss is the sweetest Draco has ever tasted.

And isn't it grand, isn't it absolutely wonderful, knowing that this year, Draco received the best birthday present… 

_Harry's love._

* * *

"Expecto Patronum!" Draco cries. They watch, with wide eyes, as a silver dragon bursts from his wand. Pride and happiness soars through Draco, and he lets out a giddy laugh. "It's a dragon!" He gazes at his Patronus as it bobs in the air, wings flapping as it whirls around clumsily. 

"You did it! Brilliant, absolutely brilliant! Charlie's gonna be dead jealous when he knows!" Potter laughs. "It reminds me of Pig." At Draco's confused look, he clarifies, "Ron's owl. Really small and adorable." He lifts up his wand and summons his Patronus, grinning when his stag canters around the dragon. 

"What memory finally worked?" Potter asks, his eyes still on their Patronuses.

Memories tumble through Draco's mind: of kissing Potter with a rampaging dragon behind them, of Draco lying in bed and dreamily counting the roses in Potter's bouquet, of countless talks at the war memorial, Quidditch with Potter… and the best one of all, when Potter confessed his love, his words as sweet as sugar and his smile like poetry. 

So many memories, and so many more yet to be created.

"I thought of you," Draco whispers. He swallows, another piece of his heart falling into place when Potter slowly turns to look at him, his eyes round. "I thought of you, Harry."

Potter's smile is as bright as a dozen Patronuses.

* * *

With half-lidded eyes and a peaceful smile, Draco admires the view of the rolling countryside from the Hogwarts Express. As the train trundles onwards, cheerful blue skies, verdant fields, quaint cottages and the occasional river gradually gives way to the suburbs of bustling London. Although he has taken the train many times, it’s different now, because Harry Potter is dozing on him, his head lolling on Draco’s shoulder. When the train jerks, Draco quickly steadies him, and he continues sleeping. It's no surprise why he's so tired — they spent last night shagging like never before. 

_"Professor Malfoy?"_ Potter asked, eyes wide in mock innocence. Draco got so hard; he loves it whenever Potter goes all student-teacher on him. _"Perhaps I should be tested too. We should revise our positions, make sure I still remember everything we covered during term._

And then he put on a cock ring. 

There is nothing sexier than a naked Potter sprawled in his bed and touching himself, a cheeky smirk on his luscious lips, his smoky eyes and hard cock promising Draco a night of wild debauchery. The cock ring was brilliant — he lasted even longer and felt even bigger.

_"Fuck me till I can still feel you in me tomorrow, Harry—"_

_"Can’t live without this, without you during hols, I fucking can't. Ride me after this, c’mon—"_

When they were luxuriating in the afterglow, spent and sated, he gave Potter an Outstanding for his performance. 

And that's why Draco is sitting on the train with a sore arse and an exhausted Potter in his arms. Potter shifts in his seat, makes an adorable snuffling sound and nuzzles his head against Draco. He kisses Draco's neck, and with his arms still wrapped around Draco's middle, squints at the scenery (he isn’t wearing his glasses). 

"We're reaching soon," Potter says sadly. "Don't wanna go," he mumbles into Draco’s neck.

Draco clears his throat. "May I have the pleasure of your company in France on your birthday week?" 

Potter lifts his head up and stares at him. "What?" 

"Let me take you to a holiday in France for your birthday," Draco says, surprisingly nervous. He thought about it last night while Potter was snoring away. He hasn’t proposed anything like this to his previous lovers (which weren't that many, to be honest). He reckons their travelling styles would be rather different — Potter is definitely the outdoors type and keen on everything, while Draco prefers to stay inside in a good cafe or a museum. 

He isn't sure how Potter would react, knowing that there're probably lots of people vying for his attention on his birthday. Even though Potter has visited France before, it was only for Quidditch matches, shuttling between the pitch, his hotel, meet-the-fans locations, and the odd club and party. A thought flits across Draco's mind — bringing Potter home to Pansy and Mother, but no, it's definitely too early for that. _Maybe it won't last that long?_ He frowns and banishes his doubt. 

He's not going to make the same mistake again. 

"Let me take you out to the best restaurants and bars. Let’s go to the vibrant cities, to sleepy villages and pristine beaches. Anything you want, really," he says, bringing Potter's hand to his lips and kissing every fingertip. He smiles when Potter’s grin widens with every word. "We'll rent a villa on the beach, and the night before your birthday, I'll lay you out on the beach and we'll kiss and touch under the stars. How does that sound to you?" 

"Perfect. It all sounds wonderful," Potter murmurs. A warmth, as sweet as honey, suffuses Draco at the sheer happiness radiating from Potter. "I’d love that, but can Porks come along too?" Potter worries his lower lip. "I know you meant it for just the two of us, but she's never been to France, and I've spent every birthday with her since I've had her. She won't be much trouble, really." 

Draco looks at the sleeping snake in her usual basket, opposite them in the compartment.

"She loves travelling by train; she likes the view, and the vibrations make her sleepy," Potter says, a fond smile on his face as he gazes affectionately at the Ashwinder.

"The Muggles are not accustomed to a snake on the streets," Draco says. He would like to take Potter to the Eiffel Tower and other Muggle attractions, besides the usual wizarding ones. "Otherwise, she is welcome to come along." 

Draco has grown rather fond of the snake; her personality is positively Slytherin — dignified, cunning and snarky (Potter translated some of their conversations, and her words made Draco laugh). If he isn’t wrong, she seems to have taken a liking to him too. 

"Oh, she'll be alright. She's fine with cities and crowds, plus she can camouflage," Potter says. "She'll be out hunting most nights anyway, while for others..." 

"She'll be watching us have sex?" Draco points out blandly, eliciting a sheepish smile from Potter. 

Trust Potter to have a voyeur for a pet. It did take some time getting used to it, but he could hardly demand Potter to bar her from returning or kick her out of the room when they were shagging. Surprisingly, the idea of someone watching doesn't bother Draco as much as he expected. 

When Potter's fucking him, he's too far gone to worry about a snake watching them, anyway. 

As long as Potter continues to talk dirty to him in Parseltongue, Draco is perfectly happy. However, it was strange when Potter was hissing during sex, and Pork Chop gave a sharp hiss, the top of her slender body shaking with what Draco assumed was laughter. Potter went bright red, shushing her before he continued hissing to Draco, looking rather embarrassed.

"Don't make me wait until my birthday to see you again," Potter says. "Come and visit me in London in early July." He grins. "I'll make you buttermilk pancakes every morning." 

"That sounds fantastic. If you’d like, we can write to each other in the meantime." 

"With owls? That is so last-century," Potter says, rolling his eyes and flicking his wrist in a perfect imitation of some students. "Haven't you heard of mobile phones before, Professor Malfoy? With texts, pictures and videos? If not, it's time to learn, yeah?" 

Of course, Draco knows about those Muggle contraptions, thanks to his students. Even though they're useless at Hogwarts, he has noticed students using them the minute they exit the train. Moreover, everyone is on their phones in Muggle Paris.

"I am familiar with those terms, and I am aware of their convenience, but I'd rather stick to owls," Draco says, sniffing. 

"Are you sure?" Potter teases. "You'd know at once when I'm thinking of you, and _how_ I'd be thinking of you." He dips a hand between Draco's legs, cupping him lightly. "Wouldn’t you like to receive naughty texts from me, or some photos of me wearing my Speedos, or perhaps a video of me wanking while I think about you?” 

Draco blinks, a surge of interest filling his half-hard cock. 

Well. 

_Well._

He's never thought of it that way. 

"Despite being a stickler for tradition, it might be prudent to move on with the times," Draco declares, earning a laugh and a wink from Potter. 

They smile at each other for a moment, their grins fading when the train slows, and judders to a stop. Pork Chop stirs, lifting her head and flicking her tongue out. They listen to the students grab their luggage, their muffled chatter and the doors slamming. They wait until they're the last ones left, before taking their things and exiting the train, Pork Chop behind them.

"C'mon," Potter says when they're on the platform, pulling Draco somewhere else, away from the crowd. Draco glances at his watch — his Portkey to France is due soon, but he can certainly afford to spend a bit more time with Potter. Potter leads him to a quieter, darker corner of the station, with Pork Chop a short distance away to grant them privacy. Their last-minute kiss is intense and passionate, with Potter's back pressed against the wall, his fingers toying with Draco’s hair, while Draco wraps his arms around Potter’s waist, holding him close. They pull apart, their foreheads resting together and Potter’s thumb stroking Draco's cheek tenderly, softly. 

"Swear you'll owl me once you've settled down at home," he whispers, stealing another brief kiss. "Don't run away again. Not this time."

Draco nods. If only he could whisk Potter to France with him. "I promise I’ll write. I'll see you in two weeks, here in London." 

"I'll be counting down the days." 

They trade longing sighs. Draco smiles when he considers what finally brought them together — a school year filled with midnight conversations, thoughtful gifts, a meddling castle and matchmaking faculty, a fire-breathing dragon and a cheeky Ashwinder. 

Draco’s shoulders slump when his watch chimes. "I have to go." 

"I know," Potter murmurs. "I love you, Draco. Only you. Don’t ever forget that." 

“I won’t. I’ll never forget that,” Draco promises. He pulls Potter into another breath-taking kiss, trying to pour all of his emotions — something that he is still unable to put into words — into it. They break apart reluctantly, and the sadness in Potter's eyes melts into something so loving and tender when he looks at Draco.

It's different now — although the school year has officially ended, Draco doesn’t experience the usual sense of closure. 

Instead, it feels like a new beginning, ripe with potential and hope, has just blossomed, like a rose.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The recipe for honey mustard pork chops was paraphrased from Mike Robinson's recipe, posted online to BBC Food. Thank you for reading, and I hope that you enjoyed the fic!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! You can show your appreciation for the author in a comment below. ♥
> 
> This story is part of HD Erised, an on-going anonymous fest. The author will be revealed January 7th.


End file.
